


Never the Twain Shall Meet

by QuinnAnderson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinnAnderson/pseuds/QuinnAnderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty doesn't just want to defeat Sherlock. He wants to utterly destroy him. He intends to do so by tricking him into making the ultimate mistake: falling in love. Johnlock, pre-Reichenbach with a hint of Moriarty/Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on FFN, so if it looks familiar, that's why.
> 
> Author's Note: I am so never retiring again. I've said I was going to stop writing fan fiction twice, but ever the lure of a new fandom pulls me back in. You lot are stuck with me for life, I guess. So, I've never written for something that wasn't an anime before, and I'm surprised and delighted that this will be the fandom to break me in—ooh la la, be gentle. God, I fucking love Sherlock. This is a brilliant show. Do you people realise how brilliant this show is? I bet that's why you're here.
> 
> Right, so, back on point: This is a JohnLock fic, set before the Reichenbach Fall, and Moriarty is in it. Why? Because I love the fuck out of him. He has no fucks left, because I loved them all right out. I'm a sucker for quirky God characters. Moriarty is wonderful, and writing him is beyond a doubt going to be my favourite bit of this fic. Oh, and I'm writing this as a gift of sorts for a friend of mine, Teal, who is figuratively my heart and soul. I may never forgive her fiancé for snatching her up before me.
> 
> The whole of it is already written, so the only thing standing between me and updating is actually writing the blasted thing and my inability to stay sober for 24 hours. No, seriously, I drink vodka like I need it to live. If I stop updating, assume I died from liver disease. You'll likely be correct. Reviews help, though. Reviews definitely help. They make me love writing more than I love vodka, and God do I ever love vodka. If I could take vodka on a date, I would cook its favourite meal, take it dancing, walk along the beach under the stars with it, and at the end of the night I'd give it a foot rub. That's how much I love vodka.
> 
> Oh, and I'm curious to know the geographic diversity of this fan base. Are most of you British or American or… what? If you could tell me when you review, that would be excellent.
> 
> Warning: this fic will contain drinking, smoking, swearing, fucking, homosexualing, prancing, dancing, frolicking, collar-turning-up-ing, angsting, Britishing, and general ne'er-do-welling.
> 
> If you find any of those things offensive, get off the fucking Internet. No, seriously, what are you doing here? You're clearly Amish, and Amish people aren't allowed to use the Internet. Go back to your sheep.
> 
> Yes, I'm always like this. Best buckle up.

…

…

" _Oh East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,_

_Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;_

_But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,_

_When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the Earth!"_

\- Rudyard Kipling,  _The Ballad of East and West._

…

…

In the span of just twelve hours, John Watson's life had been irreversibly altered.

He gingerly twisted his wrists, attempting to alleviate the pins-and-needles sensation creeping up his arms. He was immediately rewarded with a sharp burning sensation that made him suck in his breath through his teeth. He tried to calculate how long his arms had been chained above his head from the level of pain, but his final conclusion was simply  _too bloody long_ _._

"Moriarty!" he shouted into the darkness, "I know you're watching me! Tell me why you're doing this!"

He paused but heard only the faint echo of his own voice in response. Sometimes Moriarty would deign to reply, his taunting voice sounding like eerie laughter as it bounced off the walls. John couldn't say why he still bothered to call out. His captor never gave him any actual information, just jibes and gags in a sing-song voice. The man really was mad.

There was always a chance that he wasn't responding because he'd vacated the premises, however. It was unlikely he'd elected to set up camp and watch John stand perfectly still for half a day. That would be boring, after all. The doctor couldn't do a bloody thing about it either way. He was blindfolded, bound at the wrists, and pulled upward into a standing position with his arms stretched high above his head. He could walk blindly if he wanted to, but he wouldn't get far, and his captor had informed him that he was surrounded by explosives that would be triggered if he so much as brushed against them. He had no idea if that was true, of course, but taking the risk didn't seem wise considering Moriarty had displayed a prior penchant for bombs.

The former soldier took a deep breath and began to clear his mind. He'd been in high-risk situations before and knew how to cope. If Moriarty was expecting him to panic, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

 _Think like Sherlock,_  John instructed himself.  _What would Sherlock do?_

He chuckled quietly. Sherlock would probably know precisely where he was by now. John knew he was in a building from the way his voice echoed. He knew his wrists were bound by handcuffs from the feel and shape of the metal pressing into them. He knew they were attached to a hook and chain above him because he could hear the links clinking when he moved. He knew he was probably in a warehouse or boathouse on the coast because the air was damp and tasted salty. All of this he knew, yet none of it did him the slightest bit of good. As Sherlock often told him, he'd missed everything of importance.

If Moriarty's goal was to drive him mental with feelings of uselessness, he was well on his way to succeeding. John still couldn't quite process that this was even happening at all. The last thing he'd seen—literally—was the ceiling of his hotel room as he fell backwards after receiving a particularly nasty blow to the head. Sherlock and he were on a case, following the trail of a serial murderer in a small coastal town. They'd stopped at an inn for the night and after a quiet dinner together had adjourned to their separate lodgings. Sometime before midnight, there had been a knock at John's door. Assuming that Sherlock couldn't sleep—as was often the case—he'd opened it without a second thought.

Jim Moriarty was on the other side, smiling cheerfully at him.

"Oh, you're going to sleep well tonight, honey," was all the criminal said before he struck John over the head with a mallet that looked suspiciously like something a cartoon character would own.

And now he was here, chained like a prisoner and left to stagnate until someone came to his rescue.

He'd tried to use that as leverage at first, assuring Moriarty that Sherlock would find him and then arrest the thief. The cackling laughter he received in response forced the truth to dawn on him: of course Sherlock would find him. Of course Moriarty knew that. Of course that was why he was alive, tied up and surrounded by explosives. He was the most obvious bait that ever existed, dangling from a hook and everything. Moriarty undoubtedly couldn't resist the imagery.

He wanted Sherlock to come, and he wouldn't be disappointed.

John groaned. Twice now he'd been used this way; it was starting to be embarrassing. Why did he always have to be the damsel in distress?

For now, however, all he could do was wait for his knight to arrive.

…

…

"God, this is going to be  _sexy._ "

Jim Moriarty was squatting on the roof of a bakery across from an innocuous neighbourhood café. It was the kind of quaint, family-run establishment that would have seemed like an anachronism in the bustling streets of London. No, this one suited the coast, along with all the tourists, gossiping elderly women, and mundane days that went with it. The thief wouldn't have bothered with it at all—he vastly preferred the gritty alleys and smoke-filled dens of his darling, industrious London—but this café had the honour of being the breakfast destination of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest consulting detective.

That made it quite the interesting place indeed. Moriarty watched the detective from his perch on the roof across the street, grinning like the Cheshire cat. This was far from the first time he'd watched his rival this way, but each time was a new, voyeuristic thrill. Sherlock made the most exquisite facial expressions when he thought no one was watching. He allowed more of his thoughts to show on his face, and reading those minute, rapid flickers that only he could see was better than pornography to the master criminal.

Moriarty could tell, for instance, that Sherlock had gotten his note. His right hand had strayed to his left breast pocket four times, indicating that he'd stowed something of significance there. From the lack of a bulge or outline, it had to be something flat and thin, like a sheet of paper. He could tell that the other man was genuinely worried about John as well. He'd placed his phone on the surface of the table, within his immediate field of vision. Sight was Sherlock's favourite sense and the one he relied on most, so naturally it was what he turned to for comfort. The moment his phone lit up with responses from the sources he'd tapped for information, he would see it. Finally, Moriarty could tell that he himself had done an incredible job of covering his tracks. From the way Sherlock tapped his long fingers on the surface of the table and the downwards tug to the corners of his lips, he knew he hadn't found any clues. No witnesses, no leads, and no odd fibers or rare cigarette ash to point him towards the location of his missing friend.

It was obviously infuriating to Sherlock, though only Moriarty could read the emotion boiling just beneath the surface of his otherwise placid exterior. Two sides to the same sociopathic coin, they were. The head and tail of Ouroboros, destined to consume and destroy each other.

But that was too dreary of a thought for this fine morning.

Moriarty stood up, still smiling broadly, and dusted some imaginary lint from the shoulders of his suit. It was black Versace—stunning in the way it hugged his body like a one-night stand—and felt like a swath of cool midnight sky against his skin. It perfectly fit the inner image of himself that he wanted to convey to the world: the superiority, the beauty, and the power. This suit was yet another indulgence he'd used to slake his lust for hedonism. Moriarty was, and always would be, ruled by the whims of his appetite. There were many things he hungered for—entertainment, stimulation, recognition—and he made a point of gratifying in every temptation that came his way. Leave no vice unturned; now that was a motto that should have caught on. People had asked him before why he did it, why he wanted to see great cities burn and watch little screaming figures flicker out from his perch above mankind, and the answer was simple.

He did it because he wanted to. He did it because he  _enjoyed_  it. And really, who was he to deny him anything?

His current flavour of the week was just finishing his second coffee. Sherlock's index and middle fingers on his right hand twitched together. He was thinking about smoking. Moriarty had to wonder what his lips tasted like after a cigarette. He couldn't say if his fascination with the detective was carnal, intellectual, or some mixture of the two, but he could say that it was thorough. He wanted to cut Sherlock open, wriggle into his skin, and simmer in his juices. He wanted every fiber and sinew, every neuron and synapse. He'd burned for him from the moment he'd realised who he was. He was the only person to cause a fuss when he'd drowned that boy in a pool 20 years ago, the only one clever enough to notice the missing shoes. Sherlock was beautiful and grotesque and everything he'd ever wanted in an adversary. In short, he wanted to  _eat him up_.

And some day he would.

But not just yet.

Moriarty pulled out his phone, wrote a quick text, and hit send.

Moments later, Sherlock's head snapped towards his vibrating phone. It was in the detective's hands in one blurred second. The thief watched with gleeful malice as blue eyes scanned the message. In a flash, there were gears turning just beneath their lustrous surface. The game was on, and now they both knew it.

God, how he loved those eyes. They were the most lovely icy-ashy colour. Moriarty wondered how many people had noticed the spot in the right one. Just above the top of the pupil. It was a tiny, barely noticeable imperfection that he clung to with greedy fingers. He loved that spot, loved that he had been close enough to his obsession to even notice it at all. He loved it because it was a flaw in his diamond that put Sherlock below the level of God. Much as he was absolutely aching for him, he liked his place above humanity too much to invite anyone else to join him. He would satisfy his hunger for the detective, decimate him, and then move on to the next savoury treat that caught his eye.

That spot was what allowed him to do that. That spot was his favourite spot in the whole wide world. Maybe someday he would preserve it in a jar full of formaldehyde and keep it in his spice rack. Oh, how naughty that would be.

For right now, though, it was finally time to trot off to the literal and metaphorical first stage of his plan. The curtain would soon rise. It would be a shame to arrive late and miss the touching reunion. His text had just delivered unto Sherlock precisely the information he needed to locate his missing pet, and it wouldn't take him long if past precedents held true. Moriarty's plan would come to fruition by midday if everything knit cleanly together.

His plan. Now that was the important bit. Despite the erratic nature of his speech and actions—which he liked to consider just one of his many charms—there was both rhyme and reason to the premeditated kidnapping of one Dr. John Watson. The reason was simple: defeat the detective. The rhyme was even simpler: make him defective.

It had all started when a little bird by the name of Irene Adler had imparted some fascinating information to him: their darling detective wasn't just on the side of the angels, he practically was one: a virgin, pure and clean by every definition of society. Naturally that had made Moriarty's obsession grow quite a bit, oh yes. Desecration held a particular allure for him, and the idea of being the first to do  _that_  to  _him_  just… Oh God, he couldn't think about it without shivering. Mmm. Delectable.

It was not to be, however. The really succulent bit was what Irene told him next. She'd been naked, on top of him, practically on his prick already, and he  _hadn't said yes._  He hadn't said no either, of course, but men on the whole are atrocious at doing that to attractive women. Now there was a contest in place, and Moriarty could never resist one of those. If not Irene, then who? Who would the great Sherlock Holmes say yes to? Who would he invite willingly into his bed?

Not Moriarty, of course. Rape was out of the question—not for any moral reason, naturally, but because that would be violating the terms of the contest—and the thief would never be able to convince him that he had genuine feelings for him. They were, after all, the same entity. Sherlock cut love out of his life in order to maximise his potential. He would know that Moriarty had done the same, that he was the same breed of unfeeling sociopath who put logic over emotion...

...and there the answer lay. The method by which the world's greatest consulting detective could be undone.

It was positively  _simple_ , really.

It wasn't about the sex, not anymore. It was about  _love._  Love. Arguably the foremost driving force working in the heart of every human being. With two notable exceptions.

By his own definition, Sherlock Holmes would be weakened—degraded, diminished, decimated—if he fell in  _love._

Moriarty could defeat him with something  _he'd said himself._

Oh, it was too fucking delicious.

It was worth giving up his chance to be the one to defile that long, supple body for a chance to defeat him utterly. That little, lovely spot on his eye would grow until it consumed him. He would become a shadow of his former, glorious self, and Moriarty would stand triumphantly over his ravaged remains.

And he would giggle like a little schoolgirl.

There was still the obvious question that needed to be begged: if not Moriarty, then who? Sherlock would have to be open to this person, vulnerable. He would have to be completely free from suspicion as to the moral alignment of his or her intentions. It would have to be someone he was incredibly familiar with, perhaps someone who had access to him in his most sensitive moments…

Oh my.

Well, well, well, doesn't that just describe someone to the letter? John Watson: the wholesome, kind and utterly unintimidating flatmate.

Perfect.

Once he had the means, he merely needed the method, and Jim Moriarty was no novice when it came to the delightful and unscrupulous art of scheming. The last time he'd placed Watson in a life-or-death situation, Sherlock had threatened to shoot a pile of explosives that would have undoubtedly killed them all. So, danger is what makes true feelings show then? He could work with that. Dangerous situations were a specialty of his.

It had a certain charm to it, his plan. Make their hearts race near each other enough times and see if they don't eventually mistake just what it is that's causing their pulses to quicken. Psychology had shown some evidence for that, not that he much cared for the tickings of the average human brain. The swinging bridge phenomenon, it was called. If you let a man cross a stable bridge and then show him a pretty woman, and he'll like her well enough. However, if you put him on a  _swinging,_ _unstable_  bridge, suddenly that woman becomes cream to a kitten.

Moriarty suspected there was already a bit of something brewing under the surface between those two. Sherlock Holmes suddenly had a friend when he'd never had one before. He'd invited a total stranger into his life and then mysteriously became willing to put his own life in danger in order to stop the man who'd slathered him in explosives.

Interesting.

In truth, Moriarty was committing his first good deed. By pushing these young men together, they would find love, he would defeat his greatest adversary, and everyone would be happy. Except for Sherlock, of course, who would be humiliated and ruined, especially if love did in fact deplete his astounding abilities.

That was alright, though. Moriarty was going to kill him anyways.

And his little dog, too.

Whistling cheerfully to himself, Moriarty slid his hands into his satin-lined suit pockets and strode off towards the beginning of the end.

…

…

"Would you like another coffee?"

Sherlock glanced up from his phone and sighed mentally.

The waitress. Again.

"No."

She smiled coyly at him and leaned down a bit, causing her hair to fall over her eyes in a way that heterosexual men obviously found appealing. The gesture was too practiced for her to be unaware of the effect it created.

"If you need anything at all, please feel free to ask me."

She winked at him, and his inner revulsion rose exponentially. He watched as she walked away and began chatting with another customer.

She wasn't attracted to him. Most people would initially conclude that she was, but most people would be wrong. Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

She was being exceptionally agreeable because she needed him to leave her a large tip. She might not be able to pay her rent this month.

There was a tan line on her left wrist where a large watch had recently been worn and another smaller one on her left ring finger. Her uniform's white shirt had stains from the makeup she wore on the back of the collar, and all but one of the buttons were sewn with white thread. Her shoes were designer but were at least a year old. When he'd asked her what brand of coffee they brewed, she'd asked someone in the back for the answer. Her necklace was a locket with engraved initials that did not match the name on her nametag. She was wearing too much makeup and perfume. She lingered at the tables that had attractive men, as long as they appeared to be of more than 40 years of age.

Conclusion: the watch and ring had belonged to a fiancé who had ended things between them within the past six months. If it had been any earlier than that, the tan lines would have faded by now. He'd made a considerable amount of money, enough to afford giving her designer shoes as a gift. Now that the relationship was over, her source of income was severed, and she couldn't afford to replace her outdated footwear. She also couldn't replace her stained uniform and had sewn one button back on herself, hence the mismatched thread. She'd sold the watch and ring for the money but kept the necklace because it likely belonged to a family member. It was certainly not a gift, however, because the initials were not hers. She'd taken this job recently and did not yet know everything a customer might ask, such as the brand of coffee they brewed. She was looking for another rich, older man to care for her, which explained the extra makeup and perfume. Sherlock did not appear to be old enough or rich enough to want to pay for an attractive young woman to pay attention to him, and so she'd turned on her wiles in the pursuit of the only remaining benefit he could feasibly give her: a large tip.

Easy.

It was only mildly entertaining, but considering he had nothing else to do at the moment, it would suffice.

He reached again towards his left breast pocket. That was three times now. One more would likely do the trick. Moriarty was being atrociously slow about this. Sherlock had been considerate enough to select a café with large windows so he could sit right where anyone who wanted to could watch him, and how did Moriarty repay him? By dawdling.

Really, criminals could be so inconsiderate at times.

He knew he could ply him into action, however. It was a simple matter. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. That formula was especially analogous to Sherlock's relationship with the world's greatest consulting criminal. The more apparent it seemed that he was thinking about Moriarty and what he'd done, the sooner the man would cave to his desire to set things into motion. The true egotist cannot stand to let his genius go unseen for long.

The more he pushed him, the harder he would push back.

Sherlock had to admit, however, that he had not predicted this particular kidnapping. He'd knocked on John's door that morning with the assumption that the former soldier had merely slept in.

Instead he'd found an empty room, a bed that had obviously not been slept in, and a pornographic movie playing on the television. How did he know it was Moriarty? Couldn't John have simply gone for breakfast early and accidentally left his movie on? He was a sexually-active male after all. There was no reason to wonder if he watched adult films; it was practically expected of him.

The note he'd found had been the rather obvious clue that foul play was afoot. It was hand-written on a pad of paper with one of the inn's cheap, throwaway pens, and someone—clearly a man from the shape and thickness—had put on violently pink lipstick and kissed it in place of a signature.

It had one sentence scrawled across it in flamboyant, curlicue handwriting:

" _Oh where, oh where did my little dog go?"_

There was only one man Sherlock knew who was that obnoxious about his own capacity for evil.

Moriarty.

Sherlock was disappointed, in truth. Pulling the same trick twice? Boring.

He would find John, he would arrest the thief, and then everyone would be happy. Except for Moriarty, of course, who would be humiliated and ruined, especially since he was always taunting Sherlock and challenging him to defeat him if he dared.

That was alright, though. Sherlock was going to catch him anyways.

And that was a fact.

Just as he finished his second cup of coffee and was contemplating ripping off his nicotine patches and having a cigarette instead, his phone lit up. He made sure to snatch it up in the most eager way he could, playing up the role of the concerned friend. It was a new text message and precisely the one he'd been waiting for.

_You might want to check the red boathouse down at the marina. Third from the left. - JM_

Perfect.

It was show time.

…

…

Sherlock strolled up to the doors of the boathouse at a leisurely pace. Moriarty had made him wait for this all morning; now he was going to return the favour. He would never let it show, but inside he was an undulating mass of exhilaration. This was the bit he loved best: the electric final moments, charged with anticipation, that came right before the denouement. His heart was skipping in his chest like an overexcited child. The case was solved, the trap was set, and now the fruits of his labour would unfold. He hoped the harvest would be a plentiful one.

The metal doors swung open easily at his touch. No lock, no bomb, no barricade of any sort. Sherlock was immediately suspicious. It was one thing to send him a text with the exact location of what he needed—this was a blatant trap, after all. No need to feign subtlety at this point in the game—but it was entirely another to leave the door unlocked and unguarded. John was indeed standing in the centre of the boathouse, blindfolded and with his arms pulled above his head. A single shaded light bulb illuminated a circle around him, but otherwise the only light came from the now-open doors. The darkness was deep and impenetrable to Sherlock's sharp eyes.

He quickly scanned the concrete floor between John and him, searching for trip wires or other traps. There didn't appear to be anything blocking his path, but he knew something would pop up eventually. Moriarty was psychotic, but he wasn't stupid. Making it this easy would be boring.

"John," Sherlock called out, taking a cautious step forward.

His friend's head jerked up. "Sherlock?"

"Yes. Are you alright?" He took another ginger step. If there were traps laid under the floor, it wouldn't do well to rush into them. Moriarty was undoubtedly lurking nearby. If the detective stalled long enough, he might make some move that could alert him to potential danger.

"It's about bloody time. My arms are killing me."

A flicker of a smile ghosted over Sherlock's lips. "Patience, my dear Watson. I shall be right over. I'm just making sure Moriarty hasn't left any nasty surprises waiting between you and the door."

"He said there were explosives around me. Can you see them?"

Another step. "No."

"He might have been lying."

"There's something going on here, rest assured. I just haven't the faintest idea what it is."

He took another step. John was right in front of him now. For the slightest moment, he let his apparent victory cloud his judgment. He relaxed. That was when Moriarty struck.

A high-pitched, sing-song voice sounded practically in his ear, "Oh, but I doooooooo!"

Sherlock whipped around, but it was too late. Moriarty was beaming as he reached up and jabbed something into his neck. The detective stumbled back, grabbed at it, and yanked it out. A syringe. An  _empty_  syringe. He could hear John shouting behind him, but everything was becoming blurred.

His final vision before he lost consciousness was of Moriarty's eyes sparkling with deranged merriment.

...

...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty grinned. This was too easy. "I've noticed you're not stuttering through more denials. Has the truth finally sunk in then?" John didn't reply, but his body was tenser than ever. "I'm guessing you've accepted the fact that it would be rather simple for me to push his interest in you into romantic territory. You're familiar with my talent for manipulation after all. There really is no point in resisting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this fic would contain prancing. I am a woman of my word.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone is interested, I actually had my debut novel picked up recently by Less Than Three press. It'll be out in August-ish, and if you like my writing, you can get a copy anywhere in the world.
> 
> My pen name is the same as my username here.

Moriarty despised walking. It was so mundane, so  _ordinary_. Anybody could do it, and it happened billions of times a day. How exceedingly dull. That was why when he came skipping into the boathouse after his rousing round of Spying-on-the-Sexy-Detective, he was surprised to see Dr. John Watson walking about in a small circle within the range of his metal tether.

"Finding out if there are bombs right under your nose?" he called to him in his lilting voice. "You know you should never test the depth of water with both feet. Bit risky, don't you think?"

"I just can't stand still any longer," was the mild reply. "It's been ages, and I'm bored."

Moriarty was tickled by his prisoner's lack of panic. How fitting for a former soldier. "That's something we have in common, dearie. Still, you might have blown yourself up the moment you took a step and ruined all my fun. Aren't you afraid?"

"Of explosives that I'm not convinced even exist? I was at first but after half a day, this standing here and waiting business became the less attractive option."

"Well, you're in luck. Your loving master is on his way here to pick up his favourite pet as we speak. Your wait is almost over."

John stopped dead in his tracks. "What have you planned for us?"

"You don't expect me to give away the ending, do you? I have more class than that, honestly. I can assure you, however, that it's going to be very  _enjoyable_  for you both."

Moriarty could physically see John's surprise. His head snapped up, his hands clenched, and the whole of his abdomen grew taut. It was quite the delicious sight. He really was doing Sherlock a huge favour by tossing him such a delectable treat.

"What could you possibly mean by that?"

Moriarty chuckled and slid his hands into his pockets. This was going swimmingly. "John, do you like women?"

The surprise was evident again. "That's none of your concern."

"That's perversely untrue, but it hardly matters. See, I'm rather gifted in the art of reading people. Always have been. One of my many natural talents and all. When I first met you, your life history was plastered all over your face. Your darling Sherlock has much the same ability, although he is more physically-oriented, rather than emotionally. While I can tell that you do in fact harbour a sexual interest in women, I'd be willing to bet that your orientation is a lot more fluid than you think."

"You're just trying to wind me up." It might have been the lighting, but Moriarty would have sworn there was a flush to the doctor's cheeks. "You don't know a thing about it."

" _Au contraire, mademoiselle._  I know it, and so do you. Sherlock drags you all over London, into danger, out of danger, away from your attractive dates, puts human heads in your refrigerator, shoots bullets at your walls, and generally disregards your feelings at every turn, and yet here you are, begging at his feet like the loyal puppy you are. It's rather endearing, in a pathetic sort of way."

"How could you possibly know all of that?"

"Come now, are you actually going to underestimate me so drastically? I've spent quite a bit of time observing you both and all your domestic tranquility. Do give me a spot of credit where credit is due."

John grit his teeth. "I am not  _begging_ at his feet. Sherlock is a great man, and I have a lot of respect for him, but I am not his pet."

"Oh, but you are, sweetheart. You can be in as much denial as you like, but the fact of the matter is Sherlock laid claim to you the very day he met you."

John fell silent, and Moriarty gauged the effect of his words. From the tilt of the doctor's head and the tension in his balled fists, he knew he'd struck enough chords to write a symphony.

"You noticed it, of course. You may be an idiot but you're not completely blind. He dismisses your women, ruins your dates, and throws an absolute tantrum when you try to leave him. He's possessive and jealous, and that can only mean one thing."

"You… you can't be serious. This is clearly a ploy to ruin my relationship with Sherlock."

"I can assure you with the most honesty I have ever used in my life that I am only trying to strengthen your relationship with him."

John hesitated. It was obvious that he could hear the genuineness in Moriarty's voice but didn't want to trust it.

"What could you possibly gain from that?"

"If it will make my story more believable to you if I claim to have ill intentions, then I'm more than happy to oblige. Sherlock told my dear friend Irene Adler that love was what defeated her in the end, and he was correct. I want the world's greatest detective to fall in love because it will weaken him."

John shook his head. "That won't work. Sherlock would never allow that to happen."

"Perhaps not, but I'm willing to give it a go. After all, he is—beneath that uncaring face and composed intellect—still a man. An ordinary, human man with skin and bones and a very real heart beating in his chest. You've already had quite the impact on him, you know. He told you himself he's never had a friend before, nor a flatmate who suited him so thoroughly. You're special, dearie, and that is irrefutable fact."

The silence between them was viscous; it made the air feel heavy and humid, like a swamp.

Moriarty grinned. This was too easy. "I've noticed you're not stuttering through more denials. Has the truth finally sunk in then?" John didn't reply, but his body was tenser than ever. "I'm guessing you've accepted the fact that it would be rather simple for me to push his interest in you into romantic territory. You're familiar with my talent for manipulation after all. There really is no point in resisting."

"Even if…" John began hesitantly, "even if you were right, and… Sherlock, er… developed  _feelings_  for me, there's no guarantee that I would reciprocate. I've always been interested in women before now."

"Interesting!" Moriarty was suddenly screaming. He flung his arms into the air and began dancing about the immobile John as if he were a bonfire. "Interesting that you chose that as your justification! You didn't say you could never develop those sorts of feelings for Sherlock or say there isn't a homosexual tendency in your body! You pointed to your past and frankly unoriginal sexual history! Could it be that you've already considered becoming Sherlocksexual? That, my good doctor, is more telling than anything else you've said today."

John's mind was reeling. This was all too much. His brain and body were both knackered from the exertion of standing with his arms in the air for twelve hours, and Moriarty's voice was swimming in his head.

"It can't be true," his whispered to himself, but his voice sounded feeble even to him. "It just can't be. He's my friend, and I would never allow him to do something that might hurt him."

"If you think about it, you'd be doing him a favour." Moriarty had returned to talking in that taunting way of his. The pitch of his voice rose and fell with every sentence. "If Sherlock fell in love and lost his clarity of mind, he could retire! He could stop throwing himself into dangerous cases and stop risking both your lives. You could have many long, happy years together, free from murderers and serial bombers. Doesn't that sound smashing, darling?"

John was about to utter a denial when Moriarty interrupted him with a high-pitched giggle. "I'd love to stay and chat, but it seems your knight in shining armour has finally arrived. I'm going to watch this scene unfold from a safe distance. If you try to warn him, I'll set off the explosives. Let him come and rescue you in his own time. There's a good boy."

The sound of receding footsteps and the banging of metal doors was all John knew of Moriarty's exit. His thoughts were fully occupied with the conversation that had just occurred. Was it really possible? Could Sherlock have feelings for him? On some level, it made sense. He was quite rude to any women John brought home, and he hadn't seemed as affected by Irene Adler's fit, naked body as John had certainly felt. It was entirely believable that his flatmate was more attracted to men than women, but he'd always claimed to have no interest in sex whatsoever.

But that couldn't really be true, could it? What human being on the face of the planet was completely uninterested in the most basic biological drive? Sherlock was unquestionably unique, but was he  _that_ unique? And if he was actually interested in sex, despite his claims… would he really want to have sex with _John?_

The doctor's mental train came to a screeching halt when he realised he was thinking exclusively about the detective. His own sexuality hadn't come to mind, as if it were somehow not a factor.

That… was problematic.

Before John could think anymore, the boathouse doors creaked open yet again, and Sherlock's deep, booming voice announced his arrival. Though he later chalked it up to how desperate he was to be rescued, John's first thought was that he'd never heard a more beautiful sound in his life.

…

…

Sherlock's body was on  _fire._

It felt like molten iron was pumping through his veins instead of blood. He didn't need a mirror to feel that his cheeks were flushed, as was the rest of his body, undoubtedly. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his skin was tingling all over, but otherwise he seemed to be quite well.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty awakens at last!" Moriarty's mocking voice echoed off the walls of the boathouse. "Pity, I didn't have a chance to kiss you."

Sherlock's eyes slid slowly over to where the master criminal was standing. He was by the open doors, hands in the pockets of his designer suit, and he looked positively smug.

"You certainly cocked this one up, Shirley. Did you really think I'd let you just waltz in here and reclaim your ickle petsie? That would be booooriiiiiiing." His voice rose and fell several decibels in volume as he dragged the final word out.

"What have you done to me?" Sherlock asked. Cautiously, he tested his abdominal and arm muscles. He wanted to move, but not if it would hurt him.

"Oh, nothing much, really. I just injected you with a special toxin I'm rather fond of."

"A toxin? What's it called? How long before it takes effect?" If he had time, he could find a way to clear it from his system before it could do much damage.

"It's already taken effect, I'd wager, from the state of those lovely cheekbones of yours. How are you feeling, honey? Hot? Bothered? Is your heart racing with anticipation?"

Sherlock caught the innuendo immediately but disregarded it. There was no toxin in the world that killed its victims via sexual frustration. He made the executive decision to take the risk and slowly raised his upper body into a sitting position. He felt no pain, but the shift in orientation did alter the distribution of blood in his body. It was a particularly strange sensation, feeling it sift about. His blood felt like champagne bubbles just under his skin. If he hadn't been preoccupied with his mad assailant, he would have called it pleasant _._

Moriarty still had that bloody grin on his face. "You want to know the really scrumptious bit, Shirley? I injected your pet with it as well."

The detective's head whipped over to where John was still standing handcuffed to the ceiling. Sure enough, his cheeks were flushed as well, and he was breathing more rapidly than normal. The rise and fall of his muscled chest was obvious beneath his shirt. He looked… well, he looked pornographic. Sherlock had only seen a handful of adult films—all for purely scientific reasons, of course—but he knew that particular aesthetic when he saw it: it was arousal, pure and simple.

"Did you inject us with a substance that would induce arousal in us?"

"Brilliant choice of words there, my love." Moriarty gave a feminine shake of his hips. "Most people associate that word exclusively with sex, but arousal can have quite a few meanings. You're aroused when you're angry, when you're happy, and especially when you're panicking." His grin widened. "It's all virtually the same feeling, what with the racing heart and the adrenaline rush that makes you think you can punch through walls. That's not what this feels like, though, is it?"

Sherlock couldn't deny it. He felt like a warm, bubbly version of himself had tucked itself under his skin. It was… not entirely dreadful. In fact, he would almost say he enjoyed it. Shakily, he climbed to his feet, and before he could stop them, his eyes darted over to John. It had never occurred to him before, but his position was rather compromising. Handcuffs, arms drawn over his head like that, his body pulled up into a long, taut line, his shirt riding up so there was a strip of tanned, tight midriff showing just above his trousers…

Oh my.

That was a surprisingly enticing image. Blue eyes flickered over the form of his immobilized friend, absorbing every detail. This was a vision of John that he'd never seen before, and there was something about it that made it difficult to look away.

"I see you're beginning to understand your situation."

At the sound of Moriarty's voice, Sherlock finally tore his eyes away from the captive doctor. The master criminal was lounging against the door, looking like a perfect example of a devil-may-care trickster. And what a little devil he'd turned out to be.

"What have you done to us?"

"Well, I should think it's fairly obvious by now, sexy."

"Answer me plainly. I've grown weary of your games."

Moriarty cackled and took a few steps forward. "As I told your doggie earlier, I have no intention of spoiling the ending for you. I have injected you with a toxin that has altered your current biological state to one I find… more favourable. You are free to rescue your soldier boy at any moment you choose."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I have my reasons. I've revealed them to your pet already, but something tells me he's going to have a bit of a difficult time sharing that knowledge with you."

"Why?"

"You're adorable when you're brimming with questions. That inquisitive mind of yours is such a treasure."

Sherlock's patience was quickly wearing thin. "If there's a point behind this whole absurd charade, I would appreciate it if you would reach it."

Moriarty's smile was positively simpering. "The point is this, my love: despite my rather wretched disposition, I'm actually a romantic at heart. There was nothing good on the telly, so I decided to put on my own show! I would love nothing more than to watch you save the fair maiden from his current predicament. So please," he bowed with an extravagant flourish, "proceed."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his brilliant mind whirring with potential explanations for this bizarre situation. He knew that Moriarty liked to lord his sexuality over him—he'd introduced himself as gay upon their first meeting after all, and everything he did was overtly coquettish—but this was something new. His pattern of presenting Sherlock with unprecedented situations was repeating itself. What significance did this display have? He knew it was part of a power play, but what was the end result? His brain raced to discover a solution, yet none was forthcoming. What,  _what,_  was the desired result of this particular experiment? What could he possibly gain from this?

Moriarty's toxin was doing a wonderful job of making thinking difficult. Every sensation from the minute breeze flowing through the door to the clothing touching his skin felt like hundreds of delicate fingers running over his body. The only logical conclusion he could come to was that he needed to rescue John immediately. He'd been held captive since the previous night and was certainly aching to be free. From the sight of him, he was aching for quite a bit more than that.

No. That was an inconsequential way to direct his thoughts. The effect of the toxin could not feasibly influence him into thinking of anything other than their present dire situation. There could still be explosives set about them in the darkness, after all. Sherlock shook his head and strode resolutely over to John...

Oh, proximity was a fickle mistress.

Sherlock could feel every bit of the distance as it closed between them. Up close, John's skin wasn't just flushed, it was  _glowing._  The sound of his quick breathing was somehow entrancing, and that damned strip of golden abdomen kept drawing his eyes to it. His fingers twitched at his side, and for one agonizing moment the predominant thought in his head was  _what would it feel like to take the tip of my finger and run it ever so gently along that skin?_

Even a virgin could tell what the hell was going on here. He may have been inexperienced, but he was far from stupid.

This couldn't be happening. There was no way a toxin could do this to a person. It just wasn't possible.

"Moriarty," Sherlock called, his voice steady through sheer force of will, "what are you playing at?"

"I'm always playing, darling. You just so happen to be my favourite toy."

" _Moriarty._ " It was both a name and a threat from the way Sherlock growled it.

The consulting criminal laughed giddily and clapped his hands together. "You know you have to touch him to set him free, right? Well, go on then.  _Touch him._ "

The sentence made electric tingles creep down Sherlock's spine. He shivered and then grit his teeth. No matter what he was feeling right now, he couldn't allow himself to succumb to it. He was Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, the greatest mind in the world, and he refused to be undone by such paltry tactics.

Shakily, he raised his hands. They hovered just above the length of John's abdomen before slowly creeping past past his neck and blushing face, along both muscled arms and finally reaching his bound wrists. The detective bit his lip to banish all the distracting thoughts that were crowding around the backdrop of his mind. Focus, focus,  _focus._

The handcuffs had been looped over a simple metal hook with a movable clasp. If John had been taller, he could have freed himself simply by reaching up, opening it, and lifting the handcuffs out. All Sherlock had to do was grab John's wrists and guide him to safety.

Why was that such an impossible task?

Their breath was sweet between them, hot and audibly laboured. Sherlock swore he could almost hear their heartbeats pulsing in the air like drums in the distance. The insistent tingling beneath the surface of his skin was like sparks bouncing between their two bodies. All he wanted to do was close that last bit of distance between them, to rub the entire length of his body against that of his friend and see if it felt like hot velvet. He was only curious after all… There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

God, this was going to be the death of him.

Sherlock drew a ragged breath and wrapped his hand around one of John's wrists. The effect was immediate and uncontrollable. Their skin felt like molten satin when joined together—fiery and liquid and oh so perfect—and they gasped simultaneously.

"Sherlock," John whispered breathily, and the soft sound almost undid him.

With a super-human display of willpower, the detective drew John's wrists up until the handcuff chain was free from the hook and let their arms drop. Reluctant as he was to lose skin-to-skin contact, he knew it must have been ecstasy for his friend to finally lower his arms. That was more important than any… confusion he might be currently experiencing.

The sound of slow clapping echoed in the air.

Sherlock glared at Moriarty. He'd forgotten he was there, and his cheeks flamed with the knowledge that he'd watched that entire exchange, could see the jumbled feelings passing between the two men.

"Bravo," Moriarty exclaimed. "Bravo to you both. That was the best performance I've seen all year. I would say 'encore' but I doubt that sentiment has failed to cross both your minds."

"This is no victory for you, Moriarty," Sherlock hissed. "This was a cheap ploy and dirty tactics. You've wasted all our time."

"I beg to differ, darling, but all will come to light in due course. For now, I think I'd best give you two a bit of alone time. There's so much you need to  _work out_  between you." He gave them a mock salute and spun around. "You can always blame the toxin later, you realise? I've given you the perfect excuse to be as naughty as you like. No one could hold it against you."

He skipped out of the boathouse doors, leaving the sound of his maniacal laughter ringing behind him.

Sherlock knew it was utter idiocy, but the fact that he was now completely alone with John was agonising.

 _You've been alone with him loads of times,_  he mentally scolded himself.  _This is absolutely no different. You live with the man, for God's sake. Stop being ridiculous. You know precisely what is going on here, and you will not fall for it. Moriarty injected you with a toxin that's causing this feeling. It's not coming from you._

So, why did it feel so… familiar? Why did nothing about it seem odd?

This was not good.

Sherlock could tell from John's trembling hands that similar thoughts were racing through his head. There was no way to tell how long it would take before the effects would wear off. Would they just have to endure it until then? He wasn't certain he could make it much longer. His flatmate's hands were still handcuffed together, a thought that niggled continuously in the back of his mind. He had put hundreds of criminals into those same metal rings, but none of them had enticed him in the slightest. It was just John who made them transform from innocuous to tantalising.

It was just John. It had always been just John. He was the only friend, the only flatmate, and the only man who never let him down.

Fuck. This was really not good.

John's bound hands began to rise. Sherlock was fascinated by the simple motion. When strong, tanned fingers gripped the top of the blindfold, the detective thought he'd never seen more perfect hands: flecked with small scars and weathered from overuse, but perfect in every way.

Slowly, achingly slowly, John pulled the blindfold up, and the two men locked eyes on each other for what felt like the first time.

The air between them incinerated. Neither of them dared to breathe for fear that it would shatter whatever beautiful illusion this was. Their eyes searched each other's faces, seeking the answer to the question burning in both their minds. Their own desire was reflected in the gaze of the other - the longing that was clearly visible - and it fed off itself and just kept growing.

John was the first to move. He reached up with his bound hands and slowly,  _slowly_ , moved towards Sherlock's temple. The detective watched the enthralling ascent of those perfect hands until they passed out of his field of vision. The next thing he knew, trails of fire were being raked across his scalp as John threaded his fingers into the hair above his left ear. It was the simplest, most incredible touch he'd ever felt.

Suddenly there were magnets attached to his face, drawing it down until it was level with John's. He wasn't powerless to stop it; he merely didn't want to. He knew John would see it when his blue eyes flickered down to his lips, and he didn't care. He wanted him to know. He watched as the doctor's cheeks reddened even more, registering his intent and the implications behind it.

Sherlock loved those lips even more than his hands. Chapped and masculine and delicious-looking in every way. There was so little space between them now. It would be a simple matter to close the last of it.

With a blinding flash of intuition, Sherlock realised he wanted that more than anything else in the world. Just John.

And that was when John shoved him backwards.

It took him a moment to register what had happened. The toxin was still blurring the edges of most of his cognitive processes. He blinked owlishly, like a man who'd been snapped from a daydream.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his whole body shaking minutely, "let's go home. We're not ourselves, and this is dangerous."

The detective felt dazed in a way he never had before. And… disappointed? "Right. That would be best, yes."

The boathouse was suddenly flooded with light from fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. It was completely empty except for them: no bombs, no traps, and no danger whatsoever.

Both men's heads snapped over to the entrance.

Moriarty was there, grinning as always, his hand on a hidden switch beneath a panel. Sherlock would have noticed it if his primary goal hadn't been John's rescue. "Sorry to disturb you. I just couldn't resist showing my hand in the end. What's the fun in bluffing if there's no one to appreciate it?"

He disappeared without another word, leaving the remaining men flushed, guilty, and wondering just how long he'd been watching them.

…

…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was crawling on top of him, half his face doused in shadow while the other was bathed in moonlight from the window.

…

…

Moriarty was the very definition of giddy.

Those naughty boys had gone and done exactly what he'd wanted them to do. Well, practically. It would have been preferable if he'd returned and found them rutting on the ground already, but that was a bit ambitious even for a criminal genius like him. The way they'd been looking at each other was so primal it bordered on scandalous. He was honestly surprised John was  _able_  to push Sherlock away, what with how obviously dizzy for each other they both were.

The doctor was just playing hard to get. Luckily for him, Moriarty was always ready and willing to play, especially with scrumptious little men like him.

The most satisfying bit was Sherlock's apparent inability to pick up on his plot. He'd worked out that Moriarty's aim was to have him shag his flatmate through the floor, but he hadn't the faintest idea why. It was so quaint of him. Sex and love were unrelated subjects in his mind, not causes and effects that travelled both ways. Moriarty probably could have sky written his plan right above his head, and he still wouldn't have grasped it.

Adorable. Absolutely adorable.

He'd have to pop in on them in a bit and see how his two leading males were progressing. He imagined by now they were making an honourable but ultimately futile attempt to have some space between them. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. The initial tension, the awkward avoidance of eye contact, and finally the inevitable crumbling of self-restraint. Who was going to crack first? Who would be the one to decide they had to talk about it? Who would be the one to leave their hand on the other's shoulder for just a moment too long? Who would linger outside the other's door at night, debating endlessly about whether he should knock?

This first night would be the most telling one. If that went well, he could trot off to the next bit of his diabolical master scheme. That was when the real fun would start. He had plans for his sexy detective, oh did he ever. Wonderful plans so devious and rooted in ill intentions that the devil himself would shake his hand if he knew of them. All good things to those who wait, however.

In the meanwhile, he had quite a few murders that needed committing, and he knew just the assassins-network-posing-as-a-sex-shop for the job.

He could pick up some new handcuffs while he was there.

…

…

The moment they got back to the flat, John turned right around and left again. Shouting a hurried excuse about needing milk over his shoulder, he darted out the door and slammed it behind him. Sherlock was undoubtedly watching him from the upstairs window, and so he marched off in the proper direction until he was out of sight. He needed to get away as quickly as he could. Being alone in their flat together was simply not an option right now. The effects of the toxin were wearing off, but not nearly fast enough.

He was surprised they'd made it through the taxi ride back to Baker Street without leaping on one another. The desire to was overwhelming to say the least. When Sherlock had leaned closer to him with the intention of picking the lock on his handcuffs, his heart had nearly thudded out of his chest. He felt like he was fifteen all over again, struggling to remove his first bra from the older girl down the block who sighed dramatically when he fumbled. The hot, raging hormones were the same, as was the uncertainty, touch of shame, and quite a bit of fear.

There was one question that wouldn't stop invading his thoughts no matter how violently he shoved it away. Why hadn't he just let Sherlock kiss him? Moriarty was right: they could have easily blamed the toxin for what transpired, and it wasn't like he hadn't  _wanted_  to. Quite the contrary, when Sherlock's lovely eyes had flickered down to his lips, he'd felt like his chest was going to explode. He had, with absolutely no reservations, wanted that kiss to happen.

But not like that.

Not when he was drugged and couldn't think straight. How could he even be certain this was really what he wanted and not what his hormones did? How could he not wonder the same for Sherlock? Most of all, how could he allow his best mate to do something that he had openly condemned on numerous occasions?

He couldn't. That would be playing right into Moriarty's plans.

 _Then again,_  a devious little voice in the back of his head began to whisper,  _they could both be wrong, Sherlock and Moriarty. The former can't possibly know that love will really weaken him because he's never experienced it before, and the latter is a complete nutter who's just in it for the twisted pleasure it brings him. Why shouldn't you give it a go?_

He shook that final thought away. It was a very dangerous one.

Did he really even want this? Wasn't it just the drug making his mind go wonky? He'd never looked at Sherlock that way before. Well, there had been a few curious glances, like when the other man walked about the flat without a shirt on for the first time. He'd just wanted to see what the world's greatest detective looked like was all. It was simple, innocent interest, and nothing more. Although, he really did harbour a lot of respect for his friend. He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant to the point of inspiring awe in him every time he made one of his lightning-quick deductions. And he could admit, in a completely objective way, that Sherlock was beautiful. Not just attractive, but alluring with stunning, clear eyes, scultpted cheekbones, and the most interesting shape to his full lips that he had ever seen-

Oh  _God_ , could it be? It couldn't. Could it?

The vibration of his mobile in his pocket brought that line of thinking to a halt. Mycroft. Blast, not someone he wanted to talk to right now.

He sighed and answered it. "I don't suppose you're ringing to talk about anything other than your little brother?"

" _I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you,"_  was the calm reply. _"I would like to know why Sherlock is currently hacking into the medical databases of every major hospital in London and has downloaded confidential information on known drugs, toxins, and hallucinogens."_

John's heart stuttered for what had to be the hundredth time that day. He was going to need a transplant if this kept up.

He debated devising some form of absurd lie but realised it would be useless. Even over the phone, Mycroft would work it out eventually. "Erm, well, we had a bit of an… incident earlier today. Moriarty was involved."

" _Did he poison my brother?"_

He managed to keep himself from making a surprised face at how quickly the other Holmes brother put two and two together. "In a manner of speaking, yes. He injected us both with an unknown substance, but it doesn't appear to be lethal thus far. The effects were only in their peak for about an hour and are now dwindling off."

" _If he wasn't trying to kill or disable you, what do you suppose his motivation was?"_

Why the blue hell did this have to be so difficult? "Dunno," he lied awkwardly. "It caused elevated pulses, dizziness, and some odd tingling sensations, but otherwise it was perfectly innocent."

There was a chuckle from the other end.  _"Sounds like a love potion to me."_

His heart was in serious, serious trouble. If it skipped many more beats it would stop entirely. "Do you… do you suppose that's possible?"

There was a pregnant pause.  _"Why do you ask?"_

Oh bloody fuck, he'd said too much. John sucked in a breath and prepared to shoot his other foot. "Is it possible for a substance to induce feelings of lust or love in an individual?"

" _Positively. There isn't the slightest question about it. Lust is the easier of the two to induce—you've heard of aphrodisiacs, I'm sure—but love is nothing more than a chemical process in many ways. It would take time, of course, but it could certainly be done. And it would help if the intended targets already had a prior inclination towards one another."_

John knew for a fact that that last bit was said entirely for his benefit.

"Right then. Well, I'll just head back to the flat and stop Sherlock's illegal activities, shall I?"

" _I would be much obliged."_

The line went dead, and John sighed. So, it was all just a trick then. He felt… sad. Sadness, plain and simple. He had no justification for the emotion, but it was there regardless. It didn't help that Sherlock was certainly researching the toxin in order to find a way to combat it. He obviously never wanted to feel that way towards John again.

 _I have no reason to mind that,_  he repeated in his head, willing the mantra to sink in. He was acting like a schoolboy with an unrequited crush, and it was disgraceful for a grown man.

With a final sigh, he turned around and headed for the flat, praying for the last of his symptoms to soon fade.

…

…

It only took Sherlock six goes to guess John's new laptop password. The doctor was getting cleverer with it, adding numbers and underscores in "unexpected" places. His fatal mistake was that the password had to be something he could remember because if he wrote it down, Sherlock would unquestionably find it. Therein laid his defeat: for him to remember it, it would always have to relate to him, and if it related to him, Sherlock could riddle it out.

This time all it took was a quick glance through the morning newspaper that was folded up on John's chair. There was an article about a new planetary exhibit opening in a local museum. Sherlock could tell from the way the paper had been folded and creased down the middle that John had opened it to this page for an extended period of time. There was a dark spot on the very edge of the prior page; John had wet it by licking his thumb before he turned it. The print of that particular article had been smoothed out while others around it were left crinkled.

Oh yes, John had certainly read that article. He'd thought about taking his latest witless female to go see it; there was an advert for a couples' dance event on the opposite page that would have put the idea in his mind without him even knowing it. Then his thoughts had shifted to Sherlock, and he'd softly shook his head for the umpteenth time as he remembered the "absurd" fact that the detective lacked an in-depth knowledge of the solar system. The detective could see the whole scene play out in his mind just by glancing at that paper.

Naturally, if John was trying to outfox him, he would assume that picking a password based on something Sherlock had "deleted" from his hard drive would do the trick. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock was not trying to crack into the solar system's laptop. He was trying to crack into John's, and John was something he  _did_  have an in-depth knowledge of.

Six variations of numbers and capital letters later, tH3_s0laR_s1st3m did the trick.

It would have been three goes, but it had taken him a moment to deduce that John was willing to replace the y with an i and therefore a 1 just to trick him. Clever, albeit gauche.

A quick glance at his flatmate's blog showed no new entries. That was understandable considering the lack of interesting cases they'd received in the past few weeks. Moriarty had picked a convenient time to start up another round of games. He wondered if John would write an entry about their earlier adventure. The Case of the Mysterious Aphrodisiac, perhaps. It was unlikely, since John was transparently uncomfortable with what had transpired between them. He'd shot out of the flat faster than a horse at the Grand National the moment they'd arrived, clearly indicating he didn't wish to be alone with him. There was also the incredibly audible and telling gasp of breath in the taxi when he'd leaned towards him. The final damning evidence came when Sherlock had held his wrist to take his pulse while he'd removed the handcuffs. His heartbeat was going at twice its usual rate for that time of day and activity. It was all rather obvious.

As the effects of the toxin gradually faded, Sherlock had assessed his opinion of the events of that afternoon and had come to the conclusion that he felt largely unchanged. It had revealed to him that he was in fact capable of developing sexual interest in others—something he'd already suspected but never bothered to explore—and that he was much more inclined to males than females—unsurprising in every way, considering they often weren't as useful when it came to combat or chasing down an opponent. In other words, the toxin had brought to light two things of which he'd already been somewhat aware. It was hardly an earth-shattering epiphany, and if Moriarty's goal had been to rattle him or distance him from his best emotional support, he'd pointedly failed.

Still, it was rather problematic to have John feel uncomfortable with him. While Sherlock was perfectly capable of closing himself off from his desires, it was unlikely the doctor had the force of will to do the same. So long as he was distracted by what had happened between them, he wouldn't be as useful to him. Something would need to be done about that, though he hadn't the faintest idea what. Matters of the heart were not his area and never would be.

Sherlock had just finished breaking into the confidential research files of the leading expert on Clostridium botulinum bacteria at St. Bartholomew's Hospital when John returned. A quick glance told him everything: John had only gone three blocks before he'd stopped, stood still for three to five minutes, and then turned immediately back. It was obvious from the scuff on his left shoe.

"Thought you said you were going for milk," Sherlock commented casually, his eyes scanning lists of symptoms in rapid flickers.

"I was, but your brother phoned me and told me you were up to no good, as per usual."

"I suspected he would. Tell him I'm only borrowing the records for a moment. I'll have what I need soon enough."

He heard John sigh and mutter something akin to "tell him your bloody self" before he turned away.

Not a moment later, he whipped back around. "How in the blazes did you break into my laptop again?"

"You should know better than to ask questions you already know the answer to by now."

John threw his arms into the air in defeat. "Right then. Any luck finding out what Moriarty did to us?"

"We already know what he  _did_  to us. He injected us with a toxic substance that triggered strong adrenal reactions in us and then he released us into our natural habitat."

"Yes, thank you for that. I meant have you discovered what that toxic substance was? If you're going to wind Mycroft up, you'd best have something to show for it."

"I have a few inklings, but it will be virtually impossible to do more than theorise without a sample. All we know about its effects are three incredibly common symptoms, after all."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John turn pink in the face. Ah, so he was still thinking about that feeling, too. He was likely still experiencing it, actually. Sherlock's symptoms hadn't vanished entirely yet. While his pulse had returned to normal, and his clarity of mind was restored, he felt tingles down his spine now and again, especially when he looked at John. It made sense, in a Pavlovian sort of way. The sensation had been at its peak when he'd been… well, in very close proximity with the doctor. It was understandable that his mind had formed a link between the reaction and its conduit that caused a psychosomatic effect when he looked at him. He was the salivating dog and John was the ringing bell.

Sherlock twirled a pen thoughtfully over in his hands. "What did Moriarty say to you? While you were captive, that is. He said he revealed his plan to you."

The former shoulder flushed a neon shade of pink. "Erm, he said his plan was to defeat you, naturally, and that he wanted to use me to do it. I reckon he means to ruin our friendship somehow."

The taller man searched his face carefully. He wasn't lying; not really, at least. He knew Sherlock too well to attempt to do that. He'd see through it in a minute. He was, however, omitting some very important, and from the looks of things embarrassing, details.

John noticed him studying him and blushed even darker. "I'll just leave you to it then. I'm off to have a shower."

He shuffled awkwardly from the room, and Sherlock watched his retreating back with interest. He knew what John sometimes liked to do in the shower—he'd heard a few conspicuous moans on occasions when the doctor thought he had the flat to himself—and this seemed like an ideal time for that. He was fresh out of experiencing extreme arousal that had never found an outlet and was now alone in a flat with the focus of that arousal. Sherlock had to wonder if he would be the subject of John's thoughts while he engaged in a young man's favourite extracurricular activity.

Briefly, the image of his golden-skinned flatmate standing under the showerhead, dotted with glistening water droplets, and lathering up the planes of his hard, muscular chest flashed into his mind. This time, he actually salivated. How fitting.

This was going to be troublesome. Sherlock had not yet decided if he had any intention of exploring this new feeling. He was a virgin for good reason. He couldn't afford to form emotional attachments that could cloud the alacrity of his brain. He couldn't say he wasn't curious, however. He'd spent his life striving to know all, and he had to wonder what it was really like. Was it the foundation-shaking euphoric experience described in penny dreadfuls or was it merely a release of bodily fluids and a pleasure-inducing contraction designed to encourage continued procreation and ensure the survival of the species?

Perhaps someday he would know.

For now, however, he had quite a bit of annoying Mycroft to do and even more of John's emails to read.

…

…

_John was crawling on top of him, half his face doused in shadow while the other was bathed in moonlight from the window._

" _What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered, his voice low and rumbling. He would never admit it, but his entire body was trembling with anticipation. Desire—hot and thick—was pouring into his veins, and he had no inclination to stop it._

" _I'm doing what we both want, Sherlock," was John's breathy reply. The muscles in his arms stood out as he held himself above the other man's body, their eyes level and searching each other._

" _What makes you think I want anything from you?" His prideful nature refused to let him give in so easily. He wasn't accustomed to being told what to do._

_John smiled and shifted his weight onto his left hand. With his right, he touched a finger to Sherlock's bare chest. That touch was like a spark in darkness, but what came next was even better. The former soldier trailed his finger tip down the contours of his slender chest, drawing slow circles around his nipples and belly button, before finally travelling lower, lower, lower…_

" _Ahh," Sherlock gasped as John traced the outline of the growing erection beneath his pyjama bottoms._

" _This is how I know, Sherlock. And now you know what I want, too." He leaned down until their faces were a hair's breadth apart, their breath tickling each other's lips. "You."_

Sherlock woke with a jolt, bolting straight up in bed.

Oh my.

Oh  _my._

Well, that was new.

It seemed the effects of the toxin hadn't left him entirely. He'd never had an erotic dream before, but he knew there were various interpretations of them. Some people thought they were a natural occurrence that meant absolutely nothing while others believed they were a glimpse into hidden desires. Sherlock tended to err on the side of meaningless-but-perfectly-normal, but the timing of this one was curious. He'd been aroused near his flatmate earlier today and had now had a sexual dream about him. Correlation in no way proved causation, but it was something to ponder.

Sherlock was about to lay down and attempt to fall back asleep when he noticed a strange warmth in his lower body. He glanced down and raised both fine eyebrows in surprise.

A very insistent, vigorous erection had popped up between his legs and was demanding immediate attention. He looked at it curiously, as if he expected it to explain its presence. Not counting the nightly erections all functioning men experience during their REM sleep cycles, he had had precisely three of these in his life. The first had been during his final years of prepatory school, when he'd entered puberty and had little control over the odd things his body decided to do. The second had been when he'd discovered an incredibly rare, hand-written translation of the  _Liber de compositione alchimiae_ , the Arabic Book of the Composition of Alchemy. That erection had been purely pleasure-induced, rest assured. And now there was this one. He supposed this was the natural result of an erotic dream, but it puzzled him regardless.

Still curious, he reached down and rubbed his palm down the length of it. A bolt of pleasure struck through him with the force of lightning. He hissed and shuddered as it swept through him, reducing every thought in his mind to white noise for one delicious moment.

Oh God, this was  _good._

Without even thinking, he wrapped his hand around himself and began to stroke, breathy moans pouring from his mouth as he moved. He had calluses at the top of his palm from holding his violin bow, and they were  _wonderful_. They added just the right amount of roughness to his touch, something he'd just discovered he enjoyed. The sharpness of the sensation was exquisite.

The arousal flooding through his veins was liquid fire. It was completely indescribable. He'd never experienced anything like it before, and he knew he never wanted it to stop. He'd had no idea he was so sensitive down here, or that tugging on his foreskin just at the top could feel so good—ohh yes, just like that. He remembered he had calluses on the tips of his left fingers from pressing down on his violin's fingerboard. Inspired, he ran them gently over the slit in the head of his prick, letting their rough edges caress him. It was the single most brilliant idea he'd ever had. Sparks of pleasure so sharp they were painful shot up his spine with every brush. Liquid began to dribble down his shaft, slicking the way for his right hand to pump even more furiously. Inspired, when his fist reached the summit of its stroke, he twisted his wrist right at the head and  _oh jesus fuck yes just like that_.

He was not going to last long at all.

Working both hands delicately up and down his prick, he cast about for an image or idea that might send him over the edge. Normal people thought about things while they did this, didn't they? Immediately his dream came flooding back to him. John, shirtless and gloriously fit, was crawling on top of him, whispering dirty things to him, looking at him like he wanted to take him in his mouth and swallow him whole…

Sherock's world stuttered into white oblivion as he orgasmed. His every thought was mangled into nonsense as pleasure wracked his body from his toes to the ends of every strand of hair. There was fire dancing down his skin, an earthquake rocking between his legs, and waves crashing in his lower abdomen. It was the single most intense experience he'd ever had in his life, more potent than all the life-or-death battles, triumphs, and adrenaline-packed moments. Hot semen coated both of his hands, and he used it to slick himself through the last final pumps, wringing every drop of ecstasy from his body.

He fell back on his bed a moment later, utterly spent. He struggled to calm his ragged breathing and pounding heart. He prayed John hadn't heard his moans, especially the rather loud and uncontained one at the very end. Even if he had, it was bloody worth it.

Through the hazy afterglow of his post-coital mind, a thought occurred to him. He had just had a mind-blowing orgasm while thinking about his flatmate.

Maybe the dream meant something after all.

…

…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes slid down John's body, and he swore he felt the scrutiny like a swath of velvet dragged across his skin. "I noticed that the mirror isn't fogged up and the lack of steam in the air. That's rather telling about the type of shower you just had."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I told you to buckle up? This is why I meant it.
> 
> In this chapter, John's blog comes into play (dunno if any of you have read it, but it exists), and though in "real life" Moriarty leaves comments on it anonymously, I think my way suits him better. Read and decide for yourself. Does anyone who's read the blog know who theimprobableone is supposed to be? Just an obsessed fan?
> 
> A huge thank you to the wonderful people at fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic . tumblr. com. You do a wonderful service to Sherlock fans by recommending fics, and I was honoured to receive a message recently informing me that my fic is amongst your recommendations. Thank you so much! I highly encourage all of my readers to follow this tumblr and read the fics on it. They're really spectacular.
> 
> Oh, and for the people who asked, my book hasn't been released yet. It has a tentative release date set for early August. I'll post more details when I have them, so keep me on your author and/or story alerts list or whatever you have.

**  
**

…

…

London had gone mad overnight.

John watched from his window as the streets swarmed like a frenzied anthill. Police officers were blocking off sections of decimated buildings, firemen had their hoses trained on the ever-growing number of fires, and frightened pedestrians scurried about in a panic.

Moriarty had been rather busy it seemed. Six bombs had been planted in major buildings all across the city, along with one that was just down the block from 221B Baker Street. At precisely 6 AM that morning, they detonated, destroyed the buildings and a large portion of the surrounding area, and sent the city on a tailspin into chaos. John thought it was horrifying, but he knew Sherlock would be thrilled. He loved a good dose of madness with his morning coffee.

Without fail, he heard that deep, baritone voice calling for him from downstairs. With a sigh, he dressed and then headed down, mentally preparing himself for what was assuredly going to be a day of running all across the city.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and peered into the living room. Sherlock was splayed across their sofa, his long limbs dangling over the sides at odd angles. The early afternoon sunlight streaming through a nearby window had bleached his skin to glowing white. His eyes were closed, but his lids were moving. He was likely inspecting a perfect mental image of something on the back of them, a talent that had always impressed John as so many of his did. The doctor felt a bit odd, watching the other man like this without his knowledge, but it was also a pleasant role reversal. Since Sherlock always saw through him so easily, why shouldn't he get to have a look once in a while?

After a few quiet minutes, he shuffled into the room and announced his presence by clearing his throat.

"Ah, good," Sherlock greeted him without opening his eyes, "you're awake."

"I've been awake since the bomb went off this morning." John strode over to his chair, fluffed the Union Jack pillow, and collapsed into it. "It was rather difficult to miss."

"I was surprised when you didn't come down and start badgering me with stupid questions."

The doctor rolled his eyes even though he knew the other man couldn't see him. "Didn't seem like there was much point. We couldn't do a thing about it until the police calmed everybody down. The streets were mad for a while there."

"Naturally. Moriarty's goal was to strike fear into the hearts of the general public. Explosives are excellent for that."

"Was there any significance to the buildings he chose?"

"The police thought so. While they were dashing about collecting tax records, interrogating employees, and generally being wrong about everything as usual, I was kind enough to show them an aerial view of the city. The buildings he chose form an emoticon. A 'smiley face', to be precise."

John studied Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he spoke. "So, Moriarty destroyed public property and likely killed dozens of people just to pull a gag?"

"I think pull a face would be the more appropriate terminology for what he did. He's sending me a message. This is his way of telling me that whatever he wanted to accomplish by kidnapping you has come to fruition. His real game begins now."

John had to admire his flatmate's courage. A madman was playing a lethal game of cat and mouse with him, and he looked completely unconcerned. He actually couldn't think of a time when he'd seen the detective lose his nerve. He was either fearless or he had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.

"What are we going to do now?"

"Nothing."

John was actually stunned. He stared at Sherlock's prone form, convinced he must have misheard him. "What?"

"We're going to stay right here and wait for his next move."

"That's… unlike you."

"Precisely. The best way to throw off his plan is to act unpredictably. He's expecting a counterattack, and he's going to be disappointed."

The doctor continued to stare at his flatmate. He naturally knew that this meant he would be spending the entire day in the flat alone with Sherlock. Considering the events of the previous day, that was an alarming sentiment. What was even more alarming, however, was that the eccentric detective was willingly resigning himself to a quiet day at home. When there was a case afoot, he usually couldn't sit still. He transformed from a brilliant, mature man into a hyperactive child with a new toy. Was his complacency really just a strategic move designed to thwart Moriarty, or did Sherlock have ulterior motives? Motives that were strong enough to put his mind off the work for once?

John didn't dare venture a guess. His thoughts were moving into treacherous territory, and thinking about it would only make this day more awkward than it already was.

Belatedly, he realised that Sherlock had noticed him staring. Those icy gray-blue eyes locked onto his and stayed there without a hint of shame. The two men regarded each other, neither moving nor so much as blinking. Inexplicably, John felt heat rise to his cheeks. This was not good. The tension between them hadn't abated the slightest in the past half-dozen hours. He couldn't resist the change in his body at the knowledge that the brilliant detective was watching him so closely. He could probably see straight through every muddled thought in his head. With a glance, his deepest and most coveted secrets were spread out before Sherlock like the pages of a book. The idea of being exposed to him that way was… oddly enticing.

John started and jumped to his feet, alarmed at the direction his thoughts had taken. "I'll make us some coffee then?"

"Black, two sugars," was the perfectly composed, velvety-deep response. Oh, that beautiful voice of his. It was patently unfair.

This was going to be the longest day of his life.

By the time he emerged from the kitchen, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, Sherlock had moved from his supine position on the sofa to the chair in front of the telly. Some ridiculous crime drama was playing, and he was intermittently shouting at the police officers.

"Here's your coffee."

"No, no, no! Of course it wasn't the therapist! Look at his tie pin!"

"Sherlock, I'm not going to stand here holding this cup out to you all day."

"But look at the way they're interrogating the suspect! They're not making him contradict them or pretending to be sea captains or anything that might actually work!"

"Sherlock, take the bloody coffee."

The detective sighed and reached out with spidery fingers for the cup. For one, electric moment, their fingers touched, and John was furious with himself for the colour that immediately flooded his cheeks. He let go hastily and turned away, opting to take a chair out of Sherlock's field of vision. This was getting ridiculous. He wasn't a hormonal teenager anymore. He should be able to handle being alone in a room with a man he found so very…

God, could he even think it?

More importantly, could he stop himself from thinking it?

They watched the show together in silence that was punctuated by periodic yelling from Sherlock. John tried to guess what the other man was thinking from his profile alone, but that was a talent that appeared to be exclusively Sherlock's. When two hours passed with nothing but the exaggerated voices of actors pretending to be police officers to distract him from his increasingly vivid daydreams, he finally resigned himself to the knowledge that he was going to go mental right here in his own flat.

He rose from his chair. He needed to  _do_  something. "I'm going to have a shower."

"It's a bit early. You rarely shower any times other than 8 AM or 9:30 PM."

"Well, it's not like I have any pressing engagements to attend to."

He adjourned to the toilet and took the coldest shower the knobs could deliver. It cleared his mind a bit, but nothing could completely obliterate the wild thoughts swirling around in his head. He wondered how suspicious Sherlock would get if he just stayed in here all day. It was tempting, but the detective undoubtedly had his average shower time cataloged in that immense brain of his. With a sigh, he turned the water off and resigned himself to another half a day of torment.

When he opened the door fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped firmly around his waist, Sherlock was waiting for him.

The sight of those crisp blue eyes boring into him startled him at first. For a long moment, they regarded him the same way they often regarded evidence, sweeping across his face as if searching for a clue. John took a hesitant step back and fumbled for something to say.

"Er, did you need something?"

He swore he saw a ghost of a smile glide across the detective's plump lips. "There are many things I need, but you're not ready to supply them just yet."

John couldn't think of a single response to that. He could, however, think very much about how naked he was beneath his towel and how close Sherlock was standing to him. He fought to keep colour from rushing furiously into his cheeks. He would never forgive himself if he acted like an idiot right now.

He took a step forward, expecting his flatmate to move out of his way. Instead Sherlock raised his arms and lightly touched his fingertips to the doorframe on either side of him. The movement, while innocuous in and of itself, said very plainly that John had been cornered. Despite his cold shower, he was suddenly much, much too hot.

Moriarty's words came rushing back to him:  _After all, he is—beneath that uncaring face and composed intellect—still a man. An ordinary, human man with skin and bones and a very real heart beating in his chest._ It couldn't be true, though. Sherlock was Sherlock. He didn't have urges like normal people did.

"Will you let me pass?" Why did it feel like he was actually asking for permission?

"In a moment. I need to test something first."

John stood so still he was statuesque, uncertain as to what he should be feeling right now. This was so different from the dynamic they'd had between them prior to Moriarty's interference. In fact, this was completely different from anything he'd ever felt before.

With aching slowness, Sherlock lowered his head until their eyes were level. Before he could stop himself, John pictured a very similar moment in the boathouse. Their faces had been this close then, too. Their eyes had searched each other's just like this, darting across their faces, probing for the intentions that lay beneath their skin.

"You smell delicious," Sherlock whispered, his voice a silken, baritone purr.

Those words shot directly between John's legs. "I've… erm, I've just had a shower. I should smell like soap."

"No, it's not that. You have a unique scent. It's a particular concoction of your sweat, pheromones, and skin oil that always smells like John to me." His eyes slid down John's body, and he swore he felt the scrutiny like a swath of velvet dragged across his skin. "I noticed that the mirror isn't fogged up and the lack of steam in the air. That's rather telling about the type of shower you just had."

The doctor was beginning to grow accustomed to being rendered speechless. Was he imagining it, or was Sherlock leaning closer?

Was he… Was he actually going to…?

Before he could finish the mental query, Sherlock stepped back from the doorway and retreated to the living room, seemingly lost in thought.

John told himself his pounding heart was purely spontaneous, and the stirring between his legs was just a natural function of a healthy male body. Sherlock had most certainly not just flirted with him, and there was nothing odd at all about one flatmate telling another flatmate that they smelled delicious.

His inner voice sounded frail, and he knew it.

…

…

Moriarty was being a wicked little boy indeed.

It was a wonder he had time to play a round of Spying-on-the-Sexy-Detective when there were so many fuses that needed lighting. Granted, that was why he had a menagerie of lovely henchmen to do it for him. He loved that term. Henchmen. It was so extravagant, so perfectly befitting anyone mad enough to align themselves with a cheerful psychopath like him, a grinning skull as he liked to think of himself. Naturally, he had a different term for his lady cohorts. Can't have a female hench _man_ , now can we? Perish the thought! No, no, they were hench _wenches_ , of course.

But he was digressing.

The important part—not that henchwenches were unimportant by any means, oh no—was that the same night that he'd acquainted his favourite detective and his loyal doggie with their yet-undiscovered affection for one another, he found himself on a balcony of a building across from none other than 221B Baker Street. It was time to check on the effect his actions from earlier that day were having on his two leading males. The darling woman who lived in the flat attached to the balcony had been kind enough to let him in to use her phone only to promptly lose consciousness afterwards through no encouragement on his part whatsoever, of course.

Now he was standing outside and had a delectable view of Sherlock's flat and consequently Sherlock's bedroom window. Moriarty knew from many nights of watching him that the detective was surprisingly lax about closing his blinds. It seemed that despite his rumoured lack of planetary expertise—Moriarty was a faithful reader of Dr. Watson's blog, after all, and had even left him comments on a number of occasions under the screen name xXSexiMama69Xx—the detective was fond of stargazing when sleep eluded him.

It was an incredibly useful habit for both him and the half-dozen or so people who were currently plotting his murder. Well, that was how many Moriarty knew about, at least. Some of them were old friends.

Tonight was thankfully no exception. Sherlock's blinds were open, and there was a clear view of him lying in his bed. Now all Moriarty had to do was wait patiently until—

Well, well, well, sometimes good things can come to those who only waited a moment. It seemed the dear had had a bad dream… or had he? From the state of his pyjama bottoms it could have been a different sort of dream entirely…

Oh.

_Oh my._

So, he was doing  _that_  was he?

When Moriarty had left for the evening, he'd never expected to have dinner  _and_  a show.

Delicious.

The thief looked on eagerly as his greatest rival pleasured himself, blissfully unaware of his audience. It was an intoxicating sight, to say the least, and Moriarty felt no small tightening in his trousers in response. Those beautiful hands he'd so often admired were performing this lascivious operation with the same delicacy with which they usually examined evidence and plucked violin strings. If Moriarty had thought the other man's facial expressions were tantalising before, they were nothing compared to this. There was agony here, ecstatic agony and hunger that burned to be fulfilled. Pleasure gave an unusual twist to Sherlock's features, yet it suited him so well. This was a side of his rival that he'd never seen before. This was a glimpse at the beginning of the angel's glorious descent into damnation.

This was precisely what he'd been waiting for.

He knew it was no coincidence that Sherlock had elected to participate in that particular nocturnal activity the same day he'd been introduced to his desire for his flatmate. Moriarty had watched him enough times to know it wasn't a part of his usual routine. No, this was the beginning of the end, the first unwitting step towards the edge of the cliff. Everything was going according to plan, as the saying went. He'd awakened an appetite in his rival that he would forever strive to sate, just as Moriarty was striving to crush him. They were growing more alike by the day.

Sherlock would be horrified if he knew how readily he was running into the jaws of the beast.

Moriarty would see that horror on his exquisite face soon enough. He guaranteed it.

But for now, he had a half-dozen bombs that needed setting.

He hoped the world's greatest consulting detective was a morning person.

…

…

Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself. John was being silly, really. If he wanted to come in he should just knock already instead of pacing outside of his bedroom door for twenty minutes.

He had to admit it was rather endearing. The combat-trained, sexually-seasoned older man was more nervous than the virgin.

After the display he'd put on outside the toilet earlier, John had become as skittish as a feral cat. Every time their eyes met, he glanced pointedly away only to stare at him as soon as he thought he wasn't looking. His cheeks went through several rounds of alarming metamorphosis, shifting from tan to pink to scarlet on regular intervals that seemed suspiciously linked to how closely the detective was standing to him. If Sherlock made the slightest movement towards him, he started and tensed, as if he expected the other man to pounce on him at any moment.

To be fair, the detective had considered it. It would put an end to all this dancing about. He'd assumed his experiment with John while he was wearing nothing but a towel would make his sexual interest in him quite clear. Apparently, it had confused the former soldier even more. He supposed it was understandable, considering how rapidly the nature of their relationship was evolving.

Tempting as the direct approach was, this was a time to employ patience and delicacy. They were both still confused as to precisely what they wanted from each other. He couldn't afford to frighten John away by seeming overeager. The man really was his only friend and the only one he trusted completely.

Losing him would be… unbearable.

And so he'd waited patiently all day, biding his time and trying not to make any sudden movements lest John jump out of his skin. The doctor had excused himself to his room around 10, and Sherlock had followed soon after. One day down, countless more to go. He'd told the truth when he'd said they were going to let Moriarty come to them, though that hadn't prevented Lestrade from phoning him 37 times and sending him two dozen frantic texts. He was itching to answer them, to throw himself into the work he loved so dearly, but it wasn't the proper moment yet. He still had no idea what Moriarty was playing at, and until he did, he couldn't risk stumbling into another trap.

Though the last one hadn't turned out so badly, after all.

More shuffling outside of his door alerted him to a new development in their midnight dance. From the sounds of shifting weight and limbs, as well as a barely-audible large inhalation, it seemed John was steeling himself for something. In a moment, the detective heard a muffled noise that sounded like flesh on metal: a hand being placed on his doorknob. He quickly rolled over and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. It would be best if John didn't know he'd been documenting his indecision for several minutes now.

He heard the knob click and the door slowly creak open. His heart began to pound in his chest, and he smiled. He was susceptible to the same indications of arousal that he'd used against others on countless occasions. Under any other circumstances this would have infuriated him, but it was just John, after all. Just John.

Soft footsteps padded over to his bedside and then paused there. Sherlock could practically feel the warm gaze that was sliding down his body and over his face right now, studying him. He wished he could open his eyes and read what John was thinking in his expression, but that would certainly frighten him away.

Sherlock's heart continued to race as he felt rather than saw a hand reach out, grab the top of the sheet covering him, and slowly pull it down. He always slept shirtless, and tonight was no exception. He wondered if John's face was turning red again at the sight of his bare chest. He wondered if he was disappointed to see pyjama bottoms covering his long legs and narrow hips.

There was a sigh—the quietest, slightest disturbance of air—and Sherlock desperately wanted to decipher it. Was John disappointed? Pleased? Filled with overwhelming desire? This was utter torture.

He almost sucked in a breath and gave himself away when he felt a light touch on his side. A moment later, he felt a more confident one: a single finger tracing a line from the end of his ribcage to his pelvic bones. John was stroking the dip in his side where his chest melted into his hips. The idea alone was more arousing to him than the actual touch. The doctor fancied that curve in his body, and now he was  _stroking it._  Sherlock almost couldn't stand it anymore. Desire was trickling into his veins, and if John kept up his light, maddening touches, it was going to become a flood.

Should he pretend to wake up? Wait for John to make a move? Just let him keep at it?

His answer came a moment later. He felt the weight of something pressing on the foot of his bed and determined from the shape and heaviness that it must be a knee. It only took Sherlock's brilliant mind a moment to piece the implications together. John was going to climb into bed with him. He was going to crawl on top of him precisely how he had in Sherlock's dream. Oh God. Oh God. Oh  _God._  That image sent a surge of arousal into him so quickly it left him dizzy.

He felt another weight press onto the bed, closer to his head and on the other side of his legs. John was straddling him. His dream was coming alive. The desire to open his eyes was overwhelming, but he couldn't bear to ruin this perfect moment. His flatmate was going to kiss him, Sherlock would pretend he was just waking up and open his eyes, and then there John would be, hovering over him with a look of shy determination on his face. He could see it perfectly already. There was no doubt in his mind that he was an idiot for not doing this the moment the former soldier had moved in.

He felt what could only be a hand right next to his hips. Another one followed, this one by his rib cage.

Sherlock's heart stopped beating. This couldn't be happening.

He knew precisely how much John weighed, and that number was not the amount that he currently felt hovering over him.

His eyes snapped open.

Moriarty was grinning down at him.

"Honey, I'm home!"

…

…


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been so odd at first, the way Sherlock now looked at him with so much burning blue intensity in his gaze, but he had to admit… he enjoyed it. He enjoyed being an object of study for such a brilliant, complex mind. It made him happy to think he was worth being looked at like he was something precious.

**...**

…

Moriarty looked irritatingly pleased with himself. "You look surprised, darling. Were you expecting someone else?"

Sherlock's brilliant mind whirred, processing this unexpected link in the chain of events.

"I can't really blame you, though," Moriarty chuckled. "I outdid myself with that bit in front of your door. I would have been a marvellous actor if I hadn't chosen my current career path. I really had you going, didn't I?"

Sherlock, having finally recovered from his surprise, glared at him. "What do you want?"

"Loads of things, you amongst them. At the moment, however, I want very much for you and your adorable doctor to stop mucking about and get down to the nitty gritty already."

Sherlock considered bucking up and tossing him off the bed, but it seemed Moriarty just wanted to annoy him, not harm him. "Why? What possible good could a sexual relationship between John and I do you?"

"Come now, Shirley, does it really matter?" Moriarty trailed a hand down his bare chest before he could stop him. "You want to do it. I know you do. I saw for myself how very open to the idea you are."

"What happened between us in the boathouse was induced by your t—"

"Oh no, I don't mean that. I'm talking about the naughty little performance you put on that same night."

Sherlock froze, his eyes growing large. God, he really needed to start closing his blinds.

"Ah, I see you've worked it out, have you? Yes, that was quite the enjoyable display for the both of us."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You injected us with an aphrodisiac; my actions were merely the natural response to it. Now tell me the name of the substance you used."

The thief wagged a finger in front of his face. "You're mistaken, dear. The only thing I did was induce a general feeling of arousal in you. An adrenal reaction, if you please. There was nothing inherently sexual about it. You and the good doctor made that up all on your own."

Sherlock blinked and factored this new information into his calculations. He'd never considered that his shift away from asexuality could be purely organic. The idea warranted further exploration.

The hand on his chest trailed lower, and Sherlock stiffened.

"You were thinking about him then, weren't you? The other night when you were touching yourself? Just now, you thought John was sneaking into your room…" It trailed lower still. "…You thought he was the one who was caressing your side while you pretended to sleep…" Every muscle in Sherlock's body grew taut as the other man drew closer and closer to a very unexpected place. "And now you're just a wee bit disappointed. Darling, you break my heart."

Moriarty had wandered into dangerous territory both physically and verbally, and Sherlock had no idea how to react. Part of him was ready to toss the madman out the window, but the more strategic manoeuvre was to keep him talking on the off chance he'd slip up and reveal something valuable.

Before he could make a decision, he came to the uncomfortable realization that he was still half-erect from earlier when he'd thought John was stroking his back. Moriarty's hand suddenly dipped lower and ghosted over his prick through the fabric covering it. He gasped as unwanted pleasure sparked through him. It wasn't as strong as what he felt when thinking of John, but it was far from unpleasant. His mind had no interest whatsoever in the situation, but his body was perfectly willing to accept the criminal's attentions.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said in a warning tone, "it was foolish of you to waltz willingly into my hands. I could have you arrested right now."

"Oh, but you won't, darling. You're going to keep chasing after me, and I'm going to keep wriggling out of your grasp, and then one day I'm going to find a newer, shinier toy, and then I'm going to kill you. Besides, you're the one who's about to be in  _my_  hands."

The thief never stopped grinning as he slipped his hand beneath the elastic band of his pyjama bottoms and trailed his fingers down the length of his erection. "Why don't you just lay back and let me scratch your belly for you?"

Sherlock flinched away from the touch. This wasn't right. Even if he had discovered an interest in sex, that interest wasn't directed at anyone but—

"You're thinking of him right now, aren't you?" the thief cut in, his dark eyes searching Sherlock's face. "He's the only one you've ever thought of that way. When you were touching yourself last night, did you imagine his hands were wrapped around you like this?"

The image flooded into Sherlock's mind before he could stop it, as vivid as if he were actually seeing it. John would be on top of him just like Moriarty was now, smiling at him in that easy, open way that was so uniquely his. Maybe he would look a little shy as he reached down to grip him, but the moan that would pour from Sherlock's mouth would more than encourage him…

He abruptly realised he really was moaning. Moriarty was stroking him, slowly but with firm, steady pumps. His hands were regrettably lacking in calluses, but they compensated for the loss with technical skill: this was clearly not the first time the thief had held a cock in his hands. His fingers danced along his sensitive flesh, flooding him with heady pleasure. The detective gasped quietly and bucked his hips into the touch before he could stop himself. He bit his lip to stifle the sounds of enjoyment that were bubbling up in his throat. This had to stop.

"You can't distract me, Moriarty," he growled through gritted teeth. "Stop that immediately, and tell me what you think you're going to accomplish by making John and I—aah!" The thief had shifted his position so he could reach down with his other hand and do  _something_ —Sherlock couldn't fathom what—to his balls that felt absolutely incredible. He was going to have to work it out later so he could repeat whatever that was many, many times.

"It's all very simple, my love." Moriarty's voice was perfectly composed, as if he were chatting with an old chum instead of playing with another man's genitalia. "I'm trying my hand at playing matchmaker. I think you and the good doctor are perfect for each other.  _Soul mates_ , or whatever the kids are calling it these days. I want you both to live happily ever after together until your violent deaths by my hand. I think he's the one man on the face of the planet that the great Sherlock Holmes could possibly love, and I think he could love you back."

The detective shuddered as his rival gave his prick a particularly firm pump with a half twist when he reached the head, as if to emphasise his point. That was another technique he was going to have to jot down for later. God, Moriarty really did know his way around a man.

Luckily for Sherlock, his brain and body often acted as separate entities. Nothing could dull the sharpness of a mind like his. "If you really wanted us to be together, you wouldn't be touching me like this. I've seen enough murders committed by jealous lovers to know John would not take kindly to it. No one would, actually, considering all those people you murdered."

"John's not here right now, sweetie. I know I'm being naughty, but I just had to have a little taste before I gave you over to someone else." The criminal's voice was oddly magnetic. He was moving faster now, pumping Sherlock's length with firm strokes that left him dizzy from how good it felt. "I wanted to take you myself, you know. I can't begin to explain to you just how much I would love to be the first to violate this long, supple body of yours. Alas, it seems that honour can go to none but your loyal pet. What if it were him doing this to you right now? Would you stop stifling all those pretty moans that want to fly from your lips?"

The thought made him shiver from head to toe, and he felt his prick twitch with interest in Moriarty's hand.

The thief smirked at him. "It seems that idea was more than a little agreeable to you."

Sherlock could feel his orgasm looming just out of reach. It was getting harder to resist the images his rival was putting in his head. He wanted to lay back and pretend it was John doing all these wonderful things to him until the release he craved so much washed over him. It wouldn't take much longer now; just a bit more…

Sherlock grabbed Moriarty's hands in an iron grip and forced them to stop moving. The criminal looked genuinely surprised for a moment, but then he was back to grinning. "Something the matter, love?"

"You think this is the key to defeating me?" The detective's eyes were icy in more than just colour. "You believe I'm so weak that I would allow a biological function to interfere with who I am? I'm  _Sherlock Holmes._  I possess the greatest analytical mind that has ever or will ever exist, and you will  _never_  be a match for me. This pathetic excuse for an experiment proves nothing. You're going to lose, and in the end I will be the one who will watch you fall."

Moriarty's grin flickered like a candle flame. For a moment, there was absolute silence between them. Then Sherlock heard the most horrifying noise ever.

Footsteps in the hall.

"Oi, Sherlock, are you alright? I thought I heard voices, and—"

John froze in the doorway, his eyes widening so drastically they looked comical. There was nothing funny about Sherlock's situation, however. There was a criminal mastermind straddling him with his hands down his pyjamas, and his erection was glaringly obvious. He could see the thoughts flying through the doctor's head from the way his eyes darted from Moriarty's face to where his hands were to Sherlock's face and back again in rapid succession.

This was disastrous.

"John," Sherlock hesitated, uncertain of what to say, "I can explain."

The doctor opened and closed his mouth several times, his cheeks flooding with colour. After an agonising moment of stillness, he about-faced and strode back down the hall without a word. It seemed he'd been shocked into total speechlessness.

Sherlock started to rush after him, but Moriarty's weight held him in place.

"My, my, my," the thief cackled, "it seems I've started a bit of a domestic between you and your doggie."

Sherlock growled. "Yes, which is rather counterproductive considering you claimed you were attempting to kindle a physical relationship between us."

"I am, darling, I am. All in due course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe it's time I take my leave."

Moriarty darted off of him and, straightening his suit and tie as he went, and then whistled cheerfully as he made his way towards the window. Without hesitation, he flung it open, hopped over the ledge, and disappeared. Sherlock knew better than to rush to the sill and check to see if his body was now sprawled on the pavement. He would find the thief waving to him from the streets—perfectly unharmed—with that irritating grin on his face. He had more important things to deal with right now.

_John._

God, would he ever forgive him?

…

…

John's brain was reeling with such force he felt physically dizzy.

It just wasn't possible. He had to be hallucinating. There was no way he'd walked in on Sherlock in bed with  _Moriarty!_  That was not something that could happen ever. It couldn't. It absolutely couldn't.

He rubbed his face vigorously, trying to clear the image of them together from his mind. His efforts were futile; it was burned into his retinas for all eternity.

He just couldn't understand  _why._

Moriarty was completely mental, a murderer, and had tried to kill or seriously maim them both on several occasions. Sherlock couldn't possibly be…

Oh God, what if he was  _shagging_  him? What if this wasn't the first time this had happened? What if…?

No. It wasn't possible. There had to be some kind of explanation.

John collapsed onto his bed, feeling both emotionally and physically knackered. This was too much for him to absorb after spending all day skirting around his flatmate and his new, muddled feelings for him. He'd thought he was confused about where he stood with Sherlock before; this Moriarty ordeal gave a whole new definition to the word. How could his entire universe have been turned on its head in the span of a few days? Why couldn't things just go back to normal?

 _You wouldn't want them to if they could,_  said a nagging voice in the back of his mind. He rubbed his eyes again in agitation. He hadn't fully come to terms with it yet, but he knew there was some truth in that. It had been so odd at first, the way Sherlock now looked at him with so much burning blue intensity in his gaze, but he had to admit… he enjoyed it. He enjoyed being an object of study for such a brilliant, complex mind. It made him happy to think he was worth being looked at like he was something precious.

If this whole ordeal had only one benefit, he would readily say it was his heightened understanding of his feelings for his flatmate. He'd wondered before if he was completely mental for befriending a man who put human heads in his refrigerator and longed for a "good murder." He had to be completely bonkers to enjoy tagging along on cases that put him on the wrong end of a gun on a weekly basis, didn't he? He'd always wondered what it was that drove him to stick by the detective's side and hang the consequences. Now he had an idea.

He needed to talk to Sherlock about what was happening between them. They'd put it off for too long already, and now with this latest Moriarty development, it couldn't wait any longer.

The moment he heard a soft knock at his door, all of his determination drained right out of him. It was quickly replaced by horror at the idea of actually having this conversation with the man who'd been the epicentre of his life ever since he'd moved to Baker Street.

The knock came again, soft and gentle as if the knocker were trying to avoid frightening him.

 _He probably is,_  John thought as he rose from his bed. He sighed and shuffled over to his door. He supposed it was better to get this over with now.

Sherlock was standing on the other side, still wearing just pyjama bottoms and looking unexpectedly calm considering the conversation they both knew they were about to have. The moment their eyes met, the doctor felt his cheeks heat up. It was going to be a long time before he could look at him without envisioning him with another man. The idea made strange emotions well up in him, and he didn't want to think about why that was.

"That wasn't what it looked like, John," Sherlock said softly, his gaze trained steadily on his face.

"Feel free to tell me what it was then, because it looked like you were about to shag a murderer."

The detective stepped closer, and John fell back a step automatically. "I would never have sex with Moriarty. He's a criminal, and one day I'm going to put him in prison for a very long time."

"Then what the bloody hell was that?" John went red in the face and forced himself to take a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. "What was he doing… on top of you like that, touching you, and you were…" He couldn't say it. God, this was the most uncomfortable conversation he'd ever had.

"He broke into my room," Sherlock calmly explained, his ashy eyes staring steadily at him. "He climbed on top of me before I realised who he was, and I didn't throw him off right away because he was talking about his plans for us. I thought he might say something I could use to keep us both safe."

John couldn't figure out what to do with his hands. "Look, what you do in your bedroom is your own business, and that's fine, but you bloody well might want to avoid picking up killers and thieves and bringing them home with you! It's not safe."

"I have no intention of bringing anyone into this flat but you, and please stop pretending that you wouldn't care at all if I did."

John felt his blush increase. It was so difficult to focus with Sherlock looking at him so intently. "Alright. I don't like the idea of you… with him. It's not right."

"It's understandable that you don't. You're displaying classic symptoms of jealousy."

John didn't dignify that with a response. Something else was nagging at him, something that didn't make sense. "You… you said 'before you realised who he was'. Were you… expecting someone else?"

The temperature in the room spontaneously shot up ten degrees, he would swear it. John's heart was pounding in his chest so furiously he thought it might burst.

Sherlock didn't answer right away. His eyes were like gray-blue drills boring directly into his brain. He was certain the other man could hear everything from his racing pulse to the maelstrom of confused thoughts in his head.

The detective took a step towards him, and John forgot what oxygen was. The room was suddenly much too small for the both of them.

"I was expecting someone else, yes," Sherlock breathed, his voice a silken rumble deep in his chest. John wanted to lean closer to him, but not because he couldn't hear him.

The question bubbled in the back of his throat. Did he dare ask it? The answer would change everything between them, and there would be no going back.

He had to know.

"Who?"

They were standing so closely together, they could hear each other's accelerated breathing.

Sherlock was looking at him like he was the only thing that existed in the entire world. "You know exactly who."

John felt a tremor run down his spine. "I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock took one final step and closed the last of the distance between them. They were standing chest to chest, their eyes locked onto each other and whirling with very similar emotions.

"You, John. I was expecting you. I was thinking about you when Moriarty was touching me, and I thought about you last night when I had an orgasm that made me reconsider my religious beliefs."

John felt like the Earth had just fallen out from under him.

It couldn't be.

It took him several moments to collect his thoughts enough to form a sentence. "You've always said you aren't interested in sex. You said love makes people weak and that you want nothing to do with emotional connections."

"I changed my mind." He reached up with one hand and brushed his spidery fingers against John's cheek. "You changed my mind."

"We'd be playing right into Moriarty's hands. This is precisely what he wants us to do."

"Moriarty be damned. I'm not afraid of him."

The former soldier struggled to breathe. "I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock. I've always fancied women."

"I've never fancied anyone. Imagine how much more of a leap this is for me than for you."

John would've chuckled, but their situation was far too serious. He knew what he wanted to do; he just had to pluck up the courage to do it. Sherlock had made his move, and now he was expecting one in return. John could either accept that he had feelings for a man and that his feelings were reciprocated, or he could ask him to leave. Either choice would have dire consequences that he wouldn't be certain he could handle until the moment arrived.

John hesitated for only one moment before he made his decision.

With one swift movement, he leaned up and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

The kiss swept through him like wildfire. It was everything a kiss was supposed to be and made him wonder how he'd ever thought he was kissing someone before. He gripped the other man's narrow shoulders, as if to prevent him from pulling away. There was no need to worry about that, however, because Sherlock was already kissing him back with fervour, his lips moving eagerly against his. In the back of his mind, John wondered if this was his flatmate's first kiss, but the thought didn't stay for long. The detective obliterated it from his mind when he skimmed his long fingers lightly down his arms, slid across his abdomen, and slipped under his shirt.

"Ahh!" John gasped as the light touch sent a spike of arousal straight between his legs. He couldn't believe Sherlock was touching him there, that he was touching him at all. This seemed more and more like an obscene dream. He opened his eyes and saw crystalline blue boring into him.

"John," Sherlock said, his deep voice made even deeper by the husky quality it had acquired, "we can stop if you don't feel comfortable with this. I don't want you t—."

John grabbed his face and crushed their mouths hungrily together. This had gone from feeling unbelievable to feeling necessary in a fraction of a second. He needed the other man's lips to breathe, and right now he was dangerously low on oxygen. Without hesitation, he ran his tongue along the seam between Sherlock's lips, seeking entrance. Despite his inexperience, the detective worked out what he wanted almost instantly and obediently parted his lips. John slipped his tongue past them and reveled in the slick warmth that awaited him. Sherlock was ready for him, massaging his own tongue against his in a way that made him want to swoon.

His body was on fire. He wanted to touch every bit of the other man. He wanted to taste his skin and inhale his musky scent with each laboured breath. Part of him was concerned about how easily he was accepting this when just a few days ago the idea of being with a man would never have crossed his mind, but that part was buried beneath a veritable inferno of desire raging inside him. This felt right, and at that moment it was all that he wanted in the world.

He moved closer to the taller man, impossibly closer, and pressed their bodies eagerly together. Sherlock's chest was warm and firm against him, though his build was much slighter. It was so different from how it felt to hold a woman this way. Women were pliable and soft when he pressed into them, not muscular and a touch on the rough side. Sherlock's stubble was scratching against his cheeks, and his hands had calluses on them. John decided he liked rubbing against a body that could rub back just as hard, however. The added friction was enough to drive him mad.

When their hips met, he felt the press of an erection against his thigh that matched his own. A sharp jolt of desire tingled through him at the knowledge that he was the source of the brilliant man's arousal. He shoved a hand between their bodies and palmed Sherlock's prick through the soft fabric of his pyjamas. The taller man shuddered and let out a moan that was so wanton, it almost made John orgasm right there. He decided there was no sound in the world he liked better than Sherlock's voice. It was even more exquisite now than usual: rich and sonorous with a note of desperate need.

It was what the voice of sin would sound like.

Sherlock gasped for air and stuttered, "B-bed?"

John nodded, too breathless to speak, and began to move them back towards his bed, laying hot kisses on the other man all the while. The sheets were in a mussed heap from when he'd scrambled out of bed to investigate the noises coming from Sherlock's room, but he hardly cared. It didn't seem like they were going to make it beneath them anytime soon. They reached the bed and tumbled onto it without a second thought, landing in a tangle of limbs. John rolled on top out of habit and discovered he didn't mind the sight of Sherlock splayed beneath him in the slightest. In fact, he thought the look suited the detective; his messy curls were fanned out like a dark halo around his face.

"John," Sherlock whispered in a way that dripped with desire. The sound of his name sent a surge of hot blood between his legs. "John, I want you." The former soldier had never heard more erotic words in his life. If this kept up, he was going to burst at the seams.

"Are you certain this is what you want?" His body screamed in protest, but he had to know. Sherlock was his best friend, and if there was even the slightest chance of regret or guilt coming between them, he would never forgive himself for going through with this.

Sherlock's eyes were two burning spots of intensity set in his angelic face. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life."

That was all the convincing John needed.

He pushed himself up into a kneeling position, one leg on either side of Sherlock's narrow hips and reached for the bottom of his shirt. Slowly, he dragged the fabric up and over his head, tossing it casually to the side. The look on Sherlock's face was maddening. He looked like he was starving, and John had just placed the most delicious treat in the world under his nose. The former soldier lowered himself back down, supporting his weight on his elbows, and reveled in the feeling of their hot, bare chests pressed together.

Then Sherlock did the unthinkable. He hooked one of his long legs around John's waist and pulled their hips roughly together. The surge in friction felt so good it was unbearable. Without even thinking, John reached down and fumbled with the drawstring on his own pyjamas. He needed to remove every barrier between their flesh, and he needed to remove them  _now._  The other man took the hint and reached between them to push his own clothing down. When they were both sans clothes and their bare erections pressed together for the first time, they groaned in harmony and began moving instinctively.

John rocked their hips together, and Sherlock moved to match his pace. It was clumsy and awkward and so fucking hot in every way. The taller man threw his arms around his broad shoulders and gripped him tightly as he set a rough rhythm. The friction bordered on painful at first, but God if John had known it could feel this good to rub up against another bloke, he would have done it sooner. Sweat and precum soon slicked the way, and eventually they found the perfect angle and rhythm to send them both plunging into white-hot ecstasy. A steady stream of moans poured from them and mingled together in the air.

This was not going to be a long, slow session of love making on a bed covered with rose petals. This was a quick-and-dirty slap job in a dark alleyway between two people that needed each other  _right fucking now_. This was pure desperation mixed with basic carnal need. They were running on the whims of their bodies now, all rational thought lost to the insane heat they'd built between them. Their desire was too great for either of them to last long.

John had never been this thoroughly turned on before in his life. His heart pumped fire into his veins and electricity surged down his spine. The pleasure he felt was so intense it was almost painful, spiking into him in bursts that left him feeling lightheaded. He was almost afraid of the orgasm that was threatening to wash over him in wave after wave of indescribable sensation.

The look on Sherlock's face was what finally undid him. He opened his eyes and saw a vision of erotica beneath him. Sherlock's pale skin was flushed with colour from both pleasure and exertion. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his gorgeous eyes—normally so intense and alert—were clenched shut as if he were concentrating every fibre of his being on just  _feeling._  The best part, however, was how utterly euphoric his rumbling voice sounded as it moaned John's name.

Something snapped deep within him, and then the world flashed white. His orgasm washed over him and swept all sense away. He felt Sherlock spasm beneath him, signaling his own release, but he was only dimly aware of it. The pleasure that surged through him was unlike anything he'd ever felt before; it was hot and sharp and filled all of his senses at once. He felt his throat calling Sherlock's name but could only hear his own blood roaring in his ears.

When the final contraction had shuddered through him, leaving utter devastation in its wake, he rolled over and collapsed on his back, utterly spent. He sucked in oxygen in gulps, struggling to reign in his pounding heart. Christ, why had it taken him so long to do this? This was the best decision he'd ever made.

Several quiet minutes passed, and gradually his body settled down, knackered and so very satisfied. Shyly, he glanced next to him. Sherlock was just catching his breath as well. He looked flushed and content but as neutral as ever. John felt a tinge of fear that he'd botched things up somehow.

"Was that…" he began quietly. The other man looked at him, his pale eyes as intense and icy as ever. John swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. "Was that alright?"

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment before his face split into a warm, genuine smile. "That was perfect."

John smiled back, leaned over, and gave Sherlock Holmes - the world's only consulting lover - the most thorough kiss he would ever receive.

…

…


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well," Sherlock said in an amused voice, "I guess now everyone will know about us."

…

…

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, the first thing he saw was John's face resting next to his. He was still soundly asleep from the looks of his fluttering eyelids and the steady rise and fall of his chest. They were lying entwined on the doctor's bed; Sherlock was propped on his side with his long legs thrown over John's and an arm slung over his chest. Sunlight was filtering through the blinds, forming a pattern of bars on the sheets. It was certainly either late morning or early afternoon from the angle of the sun, and the room was warm and bright. It made sense that they'd both overslept; Sherlock knew for a fact that his lover hadn't fallen asleep until 5 AM, and he himself had laid awake for several hours after that.

They'd spent the time talking, not about their relationship or what they'd just done, but about themselves. John had told him about his best mate when he was in the military and the many antics they'd gotten into before he was invalided, and Sherlock had detailed to him the method through which a person's day planner can reveal whether or not they secretly wanted to kill their spouse. It was amicable and unguarded in a way they'd never before been with each other. Their conversation had been intermittently interrupted by kisses, caresses, spells of companionable silence, and one particularly heated session of exchanged handjobs. It was, without a doubt, one of the most relaxing nights he'd ever had and not the slightest bit boring.

Waking up next to John felt natural. Everything about this morning was warm and languid. He felt like he could spend all day under the sheets with him, leaving only to make tea or fetch a book before climbing right back in.

In short, it felt wonderful.

Sherlock studied the face of the man next to him. It changed considerably when he was sleeping, as he had observed long before they became lovers. The troubles John carried with him were smoothed out while he slept, giving him a boyish appearance that suited him marvellously. His lack of facial expressions and eye movements prevented the detective from deducing what he was thinking just by watching him. He decided he enjoyed the mystery, much as he did love to know everything. It left things for him to discover later.

Sherlock stretched his long limbs leisurely and heard his back pop in a satisfying way. When he'd finished, he folded his arms behind his head and set about the task of taking stock of himself now that his first sexual encounter had taken place. He felt differently, as he'd already known he would. That much was certain. The question was whether he thought this experience had been beneficial or harmful. He'd spent many long years denouncing love, emotion, and physical relationships. He'd had logical reasons for doing so, and now it was time to see if those reasons held true in practice.

There was no doubt in his mind that emotional connections were dangerous things to form. Criminals could—and often did—use them to convince people to do foolish things, like pay ransoms or allow the perpetrators to escape in exchange for a hostage's life. The only way to remain free from this influence was to refrain from forming the bonds in the first place. In that sense, his new relationship with John was a decidedly negative thing. However, he'd compromised himself the moment he'd allowed his friendship with the other man to blossom. He'd been every bit as willing to risk his life for him back then, as evidenced by the showdown between Moriarty and him at the pool. That meant that this evolution in their relationship was no more dangerous than it had been before.

Sherlock nodded minutely to himself. So far, so obvious.

Physically, he felt every bit as exhilarated as he did when engrossed in a case. A great deal of tension had uncoiled within him, leaving him feeling lighter and energised. It seemed the common belief that regular sexual activity alleviated stress was not, as he had previously believed, a misconception and an excuse to behave recklessly. It was cliché to say, but he felt like something had been released within him, like a dam had burst and now the river was flowing uninterrupted through his veins. He hadn't the faintest idea what could be causing this feeling, beyond the obvious, but it was most certainly a good thing. It made his synapses sing.

That left only one factor to consider: was sex going to distract him from his work?

He wouldn't be able to stand it if he couldn't focus on cases because he was preoccupied with his desire for John. He lived for the work, and as much as he cared for his flatmate, he refused to give up on his obsession.

There was only one way to tell what effect this had on his abilities.

They would go to the police today and find a new case. Once they had one, Sherlock would analyse his performance accordingly and deduce if sexual urges in any way impeded his cognitive alacrity.

Satisfied with his conclusions, Sherlock rolled onto his side and returned to the captivating task of studying John's sleeping face. It seemed he was going to awaken soon from the way his body was stirring just slightly. He slept on his back—undoubtedly a habit he'd formed from having to sleep while sitting up in trenches—and one of his hands was curled by his face. The fingers were twitching, a sure sign that wakefulness was on the way. Sherlock studied his fingers, counting the number of little white scars and birth marks that were freckled over them. He remembered thinking about how much he liked John's hands in the boathouse. That seemed like it had happened ages ago, yet it had only been a few days.

The former soldier woke up a few minutes later. He blinked with surprise at finding Sherlock next to and staring at him, but after a moment a flicker of remembrance passed over his face.

"G'morning," he murmured sleepily.

"Good morning, or perhaps good afternoon. I haven't checked the time."

John stretched in much the same fashion as Sherlock had. "How'd you sleep?"

"Soundly, though I was awake long after you."

John rolled onto his side to mirror his position. "Did you watch me sleep?"

"A bit."

"People consider that creepy, you know."

"People find most everything I do creepy. I'm not going to start taking their opinions into consideration at this stage in the game."

John smiled, and Sherlock felt his stomach grow warm inexplicably. After a cursory survey of his physical health, he concluded that the feeling was an emotional reaction, not a physiological one. Emulating a gesture he'd seen in a film recently, he reached out and stroked his lover's cheek with the back of one of his pale fingers. The doctor searched his face carefully but otherwise didn't react. For a split-second, the taller man felt a cold flash of uncertainty.

Sherlock knew how he felt about this; now it was time to get the other side of the story. "Are you appalled that you spent last night with another man?"

John hesitated for only a moment before he shook his head and leant his cheek into the touch.

"Do you regret entering into a physical relationship with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath?"

The doctor studied his face for a moment before leaning over and pressing their lips together. The touch sent heat racing through Sherlock's body at a rate that alarmed him. He felt the touch of the other man's tongue to his bottom lip and parted his lips to receive it. His lover had a tendency to take the dominant role in their physical activities; it was probably habitual after having engaged in relationships with women all his life. Whatever the cause, Sherlock didn't mind it in the slightest. He was still technically a virgin, after all, and his anatomical expertise didn't make him feel more confident about his lack of field experience.

John kept the kiss slow and languorous, but it left them both breathless within minutes regardless.

"How's that for an answer?" the former soldier breathed when they finally parted.

"It's still a bit unclear. You'll have to elaborate further."

John chuckled and readily complied, this time giving him a more passionate display that included raking his fingers through his hair. Sherlock wasn't certain why the cranial stimulation was so enticing, but he made certain to make a small noise to signal to his lover that the action should be repeated in the future.

As content as he was to lie in bed and snog all day, they needed to get down to the police station eventually. He had a feeling the longer they stayed in bed, the more difficult it would be to leave. Reluctantly, Sherlock rose and retrieved his discarded pyjama bottoms. He would have to return to his own room to obtain proper clothing. That raised an interesting question. Now that they were lovers, which bedroom would they use? Would they alternate? Move into one? That last thought had some merit, since he could then convert one of their rooms into a laboratory…

He realised John was staring at him expectantly and repeated his thoughts out loud, including informing him of his intention to seek a new case that day.

"I think moving into one bedroom this soon would be a dreadful idea. We could end up hating each other within a week, you know."

"I will never hate you, John. You already know our bond is a lifelong one."

The detective was pleased when the other man failed to argue with him. He watched him as he rolled out of bed and began getting dressed, admiring his war-torn but beautiful physique. Sherlock made a mental note to devote a large quantity of time to lavishing attention on the many scars—particularly the one on his shoulder that had brought John to him—that the doctor had managed to accumulate. They were his favourite part of him.

A half hour later, they were both dressed, properly groomed, and striding up the steps in front of the police department. Lestrade was waiting for them inside.

"It's about bloody time, Sherlock! I've been ringing you for two days straight."

"So sorry about that," the detective answered dully. He made no effort whatsoever to appear contrite. "I was otherwise occupied."

"Oh really? What could have possibly been more important than catching a madman who blew up six buildings and murdered dozens of innocent civilians?"

"That very madman climbed into my bed last night, so there was that to deal with. Oh, and then I climbed into John's, and well he kept me busy all night, you see."

He felt John stiffen at his side but kept his face perfectly calm.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at him and began to walk away. '"Really, Sherlock, if you're going to lie to me, try not to be so obvious about it. Everyone knows you have the sex drive of a door knob, and John's as straight as a wicket. Now come this way; if you're not going to answer my questions, then you can at least make yourself useful."

Sherlock flashed a cheerful smile at the stunned doctor by his side and strode after the DI, looking completely nonplussed. They were taken to an evidence room and shown the remains of the explosives that had been recovered from the rubble. He was able to deduce that Moriarty hadn't made them himself—no real surprised there—and that they had obviously been assembled by a Czechoslovakian man in his mid-40s who was missing his left thumb. It was perfectly apparent to him, but of course he had to stop and walk Lestrade and John through his process. At least John had the decency to compliment him on it; Lestrade just muttered "show off" under his breath.

Next they were taken to a laboratory where Molly Hooper awaited them. She made her usual awkward attempts at flirting with him before directing them to several rows of test tubes. They contained an unidentified substance that had been found on the bodies of several murder victims, all of which had been previously believed to be unconnected with each other. Sherlock—the expert in identifying everything from perfume to cigarette ash—was to study it and discover what it was.

Thirty minutes into his examination, Sherlock sighed with annoyance. "Molly."

She perked up like an eager puppy. "Yes?"

"I can't work with you hovering over me like this."

"I wasn't hovering!"

"You've made three excuses already to come over here and watch me, and frankly there are only so many times you can 'accidentally' leave your pen in precisely the same spot."

The woman visibly deflated, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw John struggling not to laugh.

"Right then. Well, I'll uh… I'll just leave you to it."

Molly hurried out of the room, a noticeable blush staining her cheeks. Sherlock chuckled and returned to the microscope he was currently bent over. The substance was organic, not synthetic, and appeared to be some form of plant matter. There was something about it that he found familiar, but he couldn't quite work out what it was. He'd knew had a case like this before, but what…

With a huff of irritation, he pushed the microscope away and began to pace, his long fingers pressed together beneath his nose.

"Something wrong?" John was waiting patiently on the other side of the room, his arms folded across his broad chest. Sherlock glanced at him, noting that he was fidgeting in a way that generally signaled distress. He did that frequently when people mentioned the war or politics. It brought back unpleasant memories for him.

"This substance is familiar to me, but I can't quite pinpoint where it was that I saw it before." The detective paused his current musings and turned his attention over to his lover. What was John thinking about that was causing him anxiety? He studied him for a moment, noting that he was alternating between staring very attentively at various objects in the room and letting his eyes go out of focus moments later. The process repeated itself several times while Sherlock observed. The lack of eye focus likely indicated deep thought or possibly day dreaming. The fact that he was repeatedly distracting himself by attempting to concentrate suggested he didn't want to think about whatever was persistently slipping into his mind. Now Sherlock's curiosity was truly piqued. He altered his original question to "What was John struggling not to think of?" It didn't appear to be anything unpleasant, since the hollow look his eyes acquired when he thought about the war was absent. He didn't appear distressed in any other way, but there was a note of tension about him.

With a mental groan, Sherlock realised he was focusing on John when he should have been identifying the substance. This was an unfortunate development. If his lover distracted him from his work, all would be lost. He couldn't say what path he would choose if it came down to it. Both losing John and losing the work would be utterly devastating to him. It would be an impossible decision to make.

He stepped closer to the other man, still studying him, and saw him straighten in response. They regarded each other, each attempting to read the other's mind, though only one succeeded.

"You're thinking about sex."

John gave him one of the startled and amazed expressions that he loved to see on his face. "How did you…? Oh, never mind, I'm sure it was from the tilt of my head or something ridiculous like that."

"The tilt of your head was part of it, yes, as were your dilated pupils and general air of tension." Sherlock closed the distance between them and placed one hand on the counter behind either side of John's body. "Who were you thinking about?"

The former soldier raised his chin defiantly, but the flush creeping into his cheeks gave him away. "Who do you think?"

Sherlock lowered his head until their eyes were level and scant inches apart, just as he had outside the toilet the day before. "You were thinking about having sex with me."

John didn't respond verbally, but his eyes darkened tellingly.

"You know that Molly usually takes her lunch break around now and likely won't be back for a half hour. You were watching me, noticing how intense I look when I'm absorbed in thought, and you were wondering what you could do to me in 30 minutes."

If John's accelerated respiratory rates were any indication, Sherlock was spot on. Slowly, he raised a hand and slid it down the doctor's shoulder to his chest. He'd dressed casually that day, just a faded graphic tee shirt and a pair of jeans. There was a chance his attire choices had been a strategic manoeuvre; the doctor knew he likely wouldn't make it through the day with his clothes on. The lack of buttons would certainly ease the process of undressing him.

Sherlock was certainly grateful when he slid his fingers under the hem of his shirt and was rewarded with a gasp. They continued to crawl upwards, mapping the planes of his abdomen, until they reached his pectoral muscles. The detective pressed his palm down over his heart until he located his lover's pulse. It was pounding just under his skin, warm and alive and excited to be with him.

Their lips came together before either of them even realised they were moving.

Sherlock shuddered as a warm dose of arousal flooded directly into his blood stream. It was inexplicable to him how such a strong physical reaction could be created with a simple brush of flesh against flesh, but he couldn't say he minded it. He moaned when John's strong hands gripped his hips and pulled them closer together. He ground them in a slow circle that created the most delicious friction. John trembled against him, a clear sign that he was enjoying the contact.

"Sherlock," he breathed against his lips, "we shouldn't be doing this. Molly could come back any minute."

"If she does, she'll get the show of a lifetime." The detective pulled back a bit and studied his lover's flushed face. "This is an area of study in which you have a great deal more knowledge than me, John. Teach me what to do."

Hunger—primal and dark—swept over the former soldier's face. It was so different from the carefree expressions he normally wore that Sherlock was instantly fascinated. He couldn't resist the urge to incite more of this other side of him.

"Teach me how to touch you."

In a flash, their positions were swapped. Sherlock was now the one being pressed back into the counter, and before he could fully recover, John forced a knee between his legs and pushed them further apart. The display of dominance surprised the detective with how quickly and thoroughly it aroused him. Considering he'd spent his whole life thinking himself superior to those around him, it was a rare pleasure to have someone else take charge.

And take charge John Watson did.

His breath was suddenly hot against Sherlock's ear. "Take your hands and put them under my shirt.

The detective did as he was told, loving the feeling of that taut, surprisingly soft skin. John placed his hands on top of his and slowly guided them up, dragging the shirt along with them. When they reached his pectoral muscles, he stopped and simply said, "Here."

Sherlock rapidly reviewed his knowledge of the most sensitive areas of the human body. He smiled when he arrived at the obvious conclusion. Humans could be such simple creatures.

He flicked one of his long fingers against John's right nipple and watched as the shorter man shivered.

"Do it again," the former soldier's voice was ragged but still had an edge of command, a tantalising side effect of his military days no doubt. Sherlock was feeling more patriotic already.

He wrapped his thin fingers around the twin nubs on his lover's body and rubbed gently. John gasped and dug his fingers into the flesh of his hips, both for support and to press him harder against him. His erection was hot and firm against his thigh, and Sherlock's own prick was rapidly swelling with blood as he watched the effect his touch was having on his flatmate. His reactions were provocative to say the least.

In a burst of intuition, Sherlock ducked down and wrapped his mouth around John's left nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The startled moan he received in return was more than enough to assure him his deduction was correct. He suckled at the bud of flesh, laving it with his tongue and intermittently nibbling on it gently. The air filled with the sound of gasps, moans, and the occasional stuttered version of his name. It seemed John was more than a little sensitive in this particular area. Sherlock switched sides and began lavishing the other one with the same attention. The sound of John's wanton, desperate voice in the air made Sherlock painfully hard in what had to be record time.

He broke the contact with a wet popping sound and grinned up at his lover. John was flushed, breathing heavily, and looking at him with half-lidded eyes.

"Unless you want me to bend you over the examiner's table and take your virginity here and now," the soldier murmured, "we need to stop."

Sherlock frowned with reluctance but stopped his ministrations. Much as he would give practically anything to see Molly's face when she walked in on  _that_  scene, it wouldn't do to cause a spectacle in the middle of a case. He straightened up and set about righting his clothes and hair. His heart was still pounding and his body felt like it was on fire, but no one would be able to detect that just by looking at him.

Still fixing the collar of his shirt, he sauntered over to the microscope, intent on giving it one final look before concluding that John had ruined him forever, and the world was doomed to be destroyed in storms of fire and ice. He glanced into the eyepiece and froze, his mind racing.

He knew what it was.

Just like that, he'd remembered.

"Eureka!" he shouted, his face split in half by his grin.

"Did you remember what it is?"

He swept over to John and wrapped his arms around him. "Yes! Yes, I did, and you're the reason!"

The doctor cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly confused.

"It's an organic substance I found not long ago during the Green Ladder case. I analysed the gravel by the pond back then and discovered the green paint which led me to conclude a ladder had been involved in the murder. I also discovered, however, an odd form of mold growing in the soil. In small doses, it's harmless, but if individuals with certain plant allergies have epidermal contact with it, it can be fatal."

"Right. What the bloody hell does that have to do with me?"

Sherlock fluttered kisses all over his face while he explained. "I once told you that you'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a  _conductor_  of light, you're unbeatable! Instead of a distraction, sex is a stimulant. This is why nicotine patches and playing the violin help me think. Well, not sex precisely in those sentiments, but functions that accelerate my cognitive or physical functioning. Sex gets my pulse going and heightens my sensitivity. This, in turn, speeds up my mental processes. You're not going to be the ruin of the world after all!"

"Er…" John hesitated, "that's… brilliant?"

"It is brilliant." Sherlock kissed him full on the lips. "I thought I was going to have to choose between you and the work, but it seems I can have both. What a marvellous turn of events." He grinned devilishly and licked his lips. "Now that that's taken care of, where were we?"

They were just settling in for another hot and heavy snogfest—arms wrapped around each other and tongues intertwined—when they heard the telltale sound of breaking glass.

Molly was standing behind them, her hands extended as if to hold a tray, and there were a dozen broken test tubes lying at her feet. Her face held a look of such sheer, Apocalyptic horror, it was as if someone had just run over her cat, set fire to her clothes, and announced that she had five minutes left to live simultaneously.

"Well," Sherlock said in an amused voice, "I guess now everyone will know about us.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And suddenly it was over.

  
…

…

John let out a muffled grunt as Sherlock shoved him back against the dining room table. His mouth was currently being devoured by the lean brunet in front of him. It felt like the other man's hands were touching him everywhere at once, feathering hot caresses all over his chest as they worked to get his shirt open. The detective was holding him in place with nothing more than the sinuous length of his body and the sheer force of his desire. Their lips moved roughly together, a tangle of tongues and teeth and wet, desperate need.

"Sherlock," John broke away with a gasp, "we can't do this he—."

The taller man silenced him with another searing kiss, effectively convincing him that whatever he had to say could never be more important than Sherlock's mouth. He felt cool air on his chest as his button-down shirt was ripped open, but the warm body pressing against him soon compensated for the shift in temperature.

"Mrs Hudson could walk in at any moment," he tried again, mumbling against Sherlock's insistent mouth, "and what about your experiments?" Beakers and test tubes clinked behind him every time their movements rocked the table.

"They'll be fine," was the silken reply. It tingled along his skin like electricity. "In fact, I believe this will benefit them."

"What's that supposed to me—ahh!" Sherlock shoved a hand between their bodies and palmed his rapidly-swelling erection through the fabric of his jeans. For a moment, every coherent thought in his brain crumbled and left nothing but static in its wake. Perhaps it was all the violin playing that gave Sherlock the most talented fingers he'd ever felt, or perhaps it was the delicacy with which he gathered clues and conducted his experiments. Whatever it was, John never wanted it to stop. He bucked his hips against his lover's hand, urging him on. Sherlock grinned at him in a way that could almost be described as wicked before continuing his quest to unravel John entirely.

Their afternoon had started innocently enough. Having more dignity than a pair of hormonal teenagers, they'd refrained from molesting each other the moment they got back from the police station. John was sat in his chair with the morning newspaper while Sherlock tinkered away in the kitchen, seemingly hell-bent on making something explode that day. The doctor had almost forgotten he was there when suddenly a shadow loomed over his paper. He looked up and was instantly captured by the smoldering blue eyes of his flatmate-turned-lover. The question he was about to ask died in his throat, smothered by the soft lips that descended on him and the strong arms that drew him into their embrace.

They'd stumbled about the apartment, too absorbed in the task of bringing their bodies as closely together as they could to notice where they were going. Now John was gripping the edge of the table for dear life while Sherlock subjected him to the exquisite torture that was his touch.

The detective moved from his mouth to his jawline, kissing up to his ear and then gently tracing its shape with the tip of his tongue. The feel of his warm breath against it made John shiver. For a virgin, Sherlock was enormously gifted when it came to locating every erogenous zone in his body. Perhaps anatomy wasn't as dull of a subject as he'd once assumed. His lover moved to his neck next, lavishing it with kisses, nibbles and licks. His slender fingers were still teasing his prick with slow, utterly wonderful but completely unsatisfying caresses.

"Sherlock," John moaned, raising both hands to grip his shoulders tightly. He needed to hold something, anything, to ground him to reality, or he was surely going to fly apart into a thousand pieces. "Sherlock, more. Don't stop." He was too deep in his arousal to be embarrassed by the pleas pouring unbidden from his mouth.

"I love your voice," Sherlock whispered hotly against the skin of his neck. "I love how you sound when you're aching for it."

His words and rumbling tone made all of John's blood flow into one area so quickly his head spun. It was mad how much he wanted this man in front of him, how much he'd needed him and never realised it. He just wanted to be in his life and couldn't imagine what would have happened to him if they'd never met. It was unthinkable.

And suddenly it was over.

Sherlock abruptly stepped away from him, and John was startled by how cold his body felt without the other man pressed against him. It took a moment for his brain to register what had just happened through the haze of arousal. He blinked owlishly and shook his head. When he finally recovered, he turned around and found his flatmate sitting on a stool by the kitchen table, bent over a microscope. He looked perfectly nonplussed; there wasn't the slightest hint in his face or clothing that they'd just been madly groping one another.

"Er, Sherlock," John said hesitantly, "what are you doing?"

"Monitoring the process of forced cell mitosis in synthetic plant fibres when introduced to foreign substances. I've been testing the effects of certain hazardous chemicals on the anaphase stage for several days now."

John blinked again. He wasn't even going to attempt to understand that.

"That's… fascinating, but why did you stop… erm, you know, what we were doing?"

Sherlock glanced up and took in his mussed, still obviously aroused appearance with one sweep of his beautiful eyes. "I apologise for that. I needed stimulation to help me think, and I was all out of nicotine patches. I'll finish what we started after my experiment has concluded."

John's mouth fell open. He couldn't have heard the other man correctly. He just couldn't have. "What  _we_  started?  _We_  didn't start anything. You were the one who pounced on me!"

"I've already explained this to you; I needed stimulation. You were the most immediate source."

John's incredulity knew no bounds. A surge of emotion swept through his so powerfully it actually made him dizzy. All of the arousal instantly drained out of him and was replaced with piercing anger. "You needed help  _thinking_  so you started snogging me, and then you just decided to stop because you fancied another look at your experiment?"

"Yes, John. I really don't see why you're having so much trouble comprehending th—."

"Oh, I comprehend it alright." He stomped over to his chair, grabbed his jacket, and threw it furiously over his shoulders. He tried to button his shirt back up, but his hands were shaking so violently he could barely manage it. "You're a right bastard, you know that?"

Sherlock was silent for several seconds before he stood up and gazed at him curiously, as if he were an unexplainable outlier in a set of data. "You're upset." He was using the analysing tone he adopted when confronted with emotion he couldn't explain. John hated that tone so very much. "Why?"

"I'm upset because you used me, you bloody git!" His every emotion was a roiling mass in the pit of his stomach. He felt simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. Did Sherlock really think so little of his feelings? "You needed something from me, so you used me like a fucking tool and then set me down again when you were finished!"

"John, I said I would conclude our session once my work—"

"Our  _session_? You make it sound like we had an appointment that you had to reschedule! And don't even get me started on your work. You care about those stupid beakers more than anything, more than what anyone else wants and especially more than my feelings. You're a spoilt brat who's never bothered to think about anyone but yourself, and even though you want me now, nothing has really changed, has it?"

The words hung heavily in the air between them. Sherlock looked completely stunned, and frankly John felt much the same. The truly shocking part, however, was that he meant every word. From the moment he'd entered into this "relationship", he'd wondered what it really was. Did Sherlock have actual feelings for him, or had he merely discovered his sexuality at long last? Was John just the most convenient bed for him to slip into at night?

The doctor took a deep breath, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "Do you not realise that what we do together is supposed to mean something? Sex isn't intended to be a way to help you think or even a way to satisfy your body's urges. It's supposed to be emotional and intimate. It's supposed to be about  _us._ "

Sherlock didn't reply, and somehow his silence was far worse than his words. John slowly turned around and began walking towards the door, pushing down the ache in his chest with all his strength.

So, this was how it was going to be.

He didn't bother announcing where he was going when he left.

Clearly, there was no one in 221B Baker Street who cared.

…

…

Jim Moriarty clapped his hands together with maniacal glee.

This couldn't have turned out better if he'd planned it.

From his perch on a rooftop across from his favourite flat in all of London, he could see that his plan to unite two wayward souls was well on its way to completion. They were humping like rabbits alright, or if they weren't yet they were certainly about to. That wasn't the important bit, however. The  _really_  crucial factor came next, when poor widdle doggie had his feelings hurt by the mean mister detective man. It was only a matter of time before he realised that sociopath really did mean… well,  _sociopath._  What was he expecting from a man without a heart?

Now it was Moriarty's turn to have some fun.

He strolled over to the edge of the roof and located the hook and line he'd used to scale it in the first place. He loved useful little devices like this; they were so ostentatious, like something a supervillain would carry on their utility belt. He'd always been a fan of the classics. In a flash, he swung over the edge and kicked his way down the building. This was precisely how he'd exited Sherlock's bedroom not long ago, and now it was going to help him get someone else into it.

John was headed for a nearby park, which worked excellently for Moriarty's purposes. The unseasonably cold temperature and gray skies meant few people were currently out, and it seemed the good doctor had his sights set on a deserted bench by a copse of trees. He undoubtedly wanted some  _alone time_  to sort out his feelings. Unfortunately for him, the thief had every intention of thwarting his plans.

He watched as the former soldier collapsed onto the bench like his legs simply couldn't support his weight for another moment. John passed a hand over his eyes, a clear sign of fatigue, before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He looked positively quaint, a veritable picture of emotional disarray.

Moriarty had never been more attracted to him.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked in his usual sing-song tone. "It seems the loyal pet has torn free from his leash."

John jerked at the sound of his voice and sprang immediately to his feet, turning to face the thief warily. "Moriarty."

"That is my name, yes." The master criminal grinned demonically. "And you're Dr. John Watson, best and only mate of Sherlock Holmes. You're looking a little distressed there, sweetheart. Did you and your new lover have a row?"

John glared at him. "That's none of your business."

"Not going to bother to deny the lover bit, eh? Come now, darling, and tell Uncle Jimmy all about it.  _You can trust me._ "

"Piss off."

"Oh, how cute. He tossed you out on your arse, and yet you're still protecting him." Moriarty took a step closer, and the doctor immediately recoiled.

"He didn't toss me anywhere, and like I said, it's none of your business. If you're here to kill me or kidnap me again, I'm not about to go quietly."

"Now, dearie, why would I do a silly thing like that? Sherlock may have come for you the past two times, but I hardly think he'd put himself in harm's way for you  _now._ "

This time when he stepped forward, the other man didn't move. John stood frozen in place, looking like his words had lodged firmly in his chest. Moriarty dove in for the kill. "You may think that you mean something to him, but you're wrooooooong." His voice swept into a wild crescendo. "You run errands for him, you deal with the cases he doesn't want, and whenever he's feeling a bit  _frisky_  you let him play with you until he gets bored and sends you on your merry way." The thief was right in front of him now, close enough to see the hollow look in his eyes as the horrible truth slowly began to sink in. "You're a  _tool_  to him, an instrument that serves a purpose and nothing more. The really sad thing is that I'm not telling you anything you don't already know."

From the look on John's face, it would have been kinder if he'd punched him in the stomach.

"That's not true," the former soldier whispered, his voice trembling. "Sherlock is the best man I know. Everyone thinks he doesn't have a heart, but I know he does."

"Darling, really, when are you going to wake up and realise that Sherlock told you precisely what he was the moment you met him? He's a sociopath who purposefully doesn't make friends or fall in love because those things are useless to him. He has no heart; he just makes you think that he does because it would be inconvenient not to: you wouldn't let him manipulate you so easily if you knew what he really was. He's a demon wearing human skin, and he's counting on you to keep denying what's right in front of your eyes."

John seemed to regain a modicum of his fighting spirit. He squared his shoulders and stared resolutely forward. "It's not true. I know it's not. Sherlock may be a lot of things, but he's not evil."

Such a good doggie. He really was the cutest thing. So unendingly loyal and with so little justification for it. He was the perfect pawn to help fulfill Moriarty's plans.

The thief reached out and walked two fingers slowly along John's shoulder. "You know the only one who can understand him is me, right? We're the same, Sherlock and I. Two unfeeling sociopaths who have no need for the rest of you. Other people are just ants to us, marching through their insignificant existences without the slightest bit of purpose or worth. We're the Gods standing over them with a magnifying glass, laughing as they burn. We're the only ones who can take the blaring white noise of a boring, normal life and turn it into a beautiful symphony."

John didn't seem to notice that Moriarty was closing the last of the distance between their faces, he was so entranced by the satin hum of his voice and the images it planted in his mind.

The thief lowered his voice to a breathy whisper. "Even if you wormed into his trousers, he'd never fuck you the way he'd fuck me. You know that, right? Do you really think someone like  _us_  could want someone like  _you?_  You are just like all the rest of them."

He seized the former soldier's face and crushed it to his. For three agonising seconds, John was too shocked to do anything about it. In his mind, Moriarty was crowing. Victory was nigh.

Then three gunshots rang out.

Moriarty released John with a delighted giggle and whipped around. Sherlock was standing a few metres behind them with a pistol in his hands, pointed at the sky. The thief recognised the gun as the one he'd had at the pool. Clever boy had realised that in John's compromised emotional state, he was the perfect target.

Oh  _goody_.

"Lovely of you to join us, my love," Moriarty chuckled, sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit. "I see I'm not the only one who likes to make an exciting entrance."

"Get away from John," the detective growled. His face was as composed at it usually was, but his eyes were blazing. "Now."

"You boys never cease to entertain me. Is that a hint of jealousy I hear in your tone? Are you angry with me for playing with your toy?"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer. He pulled the trigger again, and the resulting shot was deafening. Then he leveled the barrel with Moriarty's face, the sight showing that the next bullet would go directly between his eyes.

Moriarty grinned. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

"Tell me why I shouldn't shoot you right now."

"Well, that would be dreadfully anticlimactic, for one thing." The thief started to back away to the side, still smiling calmly. "And because you don't want to kill me. Not really, anyway. I'm the most interesting puzzle you've encountered in a long time, and you won't be satisfied until you capture me yourself. Killing me won't satiate your needs."

He spun one arm around in an exaggerated goodbye wave and turned his back on the pair of lovers. It would be so easy for Sherlock to shoot his defenseless, retreating form and be done with it, but they both knew he wouldn't. He loved the game more than anything in the world, and until he proved his superiority, he would never be able to let it rest.

Of course, that would never happen now.

Moriarty had succeeded. Sherlock was in love, and he would surely suffer for it.

His final fall from glory was nigh.

…

…

Sherlock couldn't explain why his heart was pounding so furiously. John hadn't kissed Moriarty willingly; that was simply inconceivable. The thief had dragged their faces together. It was obvious.

So why did his veins feel like they were pumping broken glass?

He watched as Moriarty skipped off like an overgrown, deranged child. He fought the overwhelming urge to chase after him. He knew he'd have another chance to topple the thief from his imaginary throne, but the impulse was still strong. Moriarty was incapable of leaving him alone, just as he was incapable of ignoring him. Right now, however, he needed to do what he'd come here to do.

His gaze slid over to John who was still looking rather shocked at being kissed by a madman. He watched as the doctor raised a hand slowly to his lips, touching them as if to ensure they were still there. Sherlock felt like he was burning, but he couldn't determine the source of the emotion. The image of Moriarty with his face pressed to John's kept flashing in front of his eyes. It was maddening how much he'd wanted to shoot him when he'd realised what he was going to do. Only logic and iron-bound willpower had kept him from doing it.

After what felt like an eternity, John met his gaze. The two men regarded each other, uncertainty plain on their features.

It was John who spoke first. "Nice timing."

Sherlock almost wanted to laugh, but the urge died in his throat when he saw how serious his lover's face was. "Indeed. I'm surprised it took me as long as it did to work out that Moriarty would likely take advantage of our argument. I'm glad I was able to discern your location in time to..." He trailed off, uncertain of what to say. In time to stop John from being molested further? In time to stop him from reciprocating the kiss? No. Thinking about that made bile rise up in the back of his throat.

The two flatmates stood awkwardly together for several long minutes, each uncertain of what to say.

Finally, Sherlock spoke again, hesitantly, "I don't know what Moriarty said to you, but I hope you didn't listen."

A flicker of something unidentifiable flashed in the shorter man's eyes. "I don't know what to think. To be honest, a lot of what he said made sense."

Sherlock tucked John's pistol into a pocket on his long overcoat and slowly approached, feeling like he was trying to corner a skittish animal. "You can't mean that. I know I'm not the most... open person in the world, but you know who I am."

"An unfeeling sociopath who doesn't have friends for a reason?"

"John, don't you remember? I don't have friends. I've just got one."

The former soldier bit his lip in an uncertain way. "What does this mean to you, Sherlock? What we've been doing? What do  _I_  mean to you?"

The detective ran a long-fingered hand through his messy curls and sighed. "I really need to start being more attentive. I'm surprised you have to ask that question."

"Well, I do. I just do. Not all of us are geniuses who can read other people's minds at a glance. Some of us need to be told what others are thinking or feeling, alright? Some of us -"

Sherlock silenced him by placing one long, straight finger against his lips. His blue eyes blazed with intensity; he could see another emotion in the reflection that was John's facial expression: passion.

"I'm sorry for what I did, John. I'm sorry that I don't know how to be with people. I told you once that alone protects me, and the truth is I really believed that before you came along." He reached up and brushed John's cheeks with his fingers. "I'm still not accustomed to the idea of 'us.' I can't promise that I ever will be." He leaned his head down and made their eyes level. "I can promise, however, that there's a reason why I let you into my life. There's a reason why I called you my friend, and there's a reason why I wanted to shoot Moriarty for daring to so much as touch you."

There was a long moment of silence between them, and then John smiled. "It's understandable that you did. You're displaying classic symptoms of jealousy."

That time, Sherlock really did laugh, and John laughed with him.

"The point is, you're far more than a convenience to me. You're more than a friend and more than anyone else has ever been to me, including my brother. I can't lose you."

He closed the distance between their faces and gently pressed their lips together. The kiss was light and brief, but it warmed his stomach regardless.

When they parted, John closed his eyes and sighed. "I can't lose you either. Damn you for being so bloody irresistible."

The detective smiled. "It's a natural result of being infinitely more interesting than everyone else." He slipped an arm around his lover's shoulders. "Now, let's get home and finish what we were doing before I so rudely interrupted us."

...

...


	8. Chapter 8

  
…

…

Sherlock pounced on him the instant they entered the flat.

It was like being draped in a warm, sinuous cloak, the way the taller man wrapped himself entirely around him. Their tangle of limbs became indistinguishable from each other as they groped and stumbled and sighed together. Their hands were everywhere at once, tugging on their clothes, trying to bring their bodies closer and closer. For the first time John realised the absurd desire he had to climb into Sherlock's skin and burrow down into his heart. He wanted to encircle his lungs and nest in his brain, and it made absolutely no sense at all, but it was really quite obvious. This was where he was supposed to be: singing along every fibre of Sherlock. How had it taken him such a ridiculously long time to admit it?

There wasn't time to think. Sherlock's mouth was hot and demanding against his, and he had no desire to impede its progress. The kiss swept through him in a crackling flood of electricity. He wondered if he would ever cease to be startled by the profoundness of his attraction to the brilliant detective. Slender fingers were raking through his hair and sliding down his chest, and it made his entire body thrum with delight. It was obscene to want a single person so much. His feelings were unreal and all-encompassing and probably dangerous and he didn't give one bloody fuck about it.

He parted his lips and deepened the already-ravenous kiss, needing to have the other man's taste coat his tongue, to fill the inside of his mouth. His fingers found Sherlock's shirt and impatiently tugged at the buttons. As much as he loved the other man's choice of dress, he very much wanted to rip off everything that was currently keeping their bare skin from touching. He felt Sherlock's fingers working at his shirt as well, his progress delayed by the fact that he kept stopping to slip his hand into the open fabric and stroke the doctor's chest. John shuddered at the touch, at the intensity of the intent behind it, and groaned against Sherlock's lips.

In unison, they began to move, stumbling blindly up the stairs towards the living room. Through telepathic conversation, they concluded that there was no way they were going to make it to either bedroom now. The nearest flat surface would do just fine, and if Mrs Hudson should interrupt them, well worse things had certainly happened.

When they arrived at their destination, Sherlock threw him down lengthwise on the sofa. John glanced up and was struck by how dark and glorious the other man looked when he towered over him, his eyes burning with all the intensity of a blue flame. The doctor shuddered when those ice-fire eyes slid over his body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. God, Sherlock didn't even need to  _touch him_  to make him lose his breath. This was mad and wonderful.

He had just enough time to prop himself up on his elbows before the detective slid on top of him, balancing his weight on his hands. He caged the entire length of him in place without ever touching him, his hands resting by his shoulders, his knees by his hips, and his long body hovering just above his skin. John fought the intense urge to grab him and press their flesh together where it belonged. Sherlock's shirt was hanging open like a curtain on either side of his chest, ensuring that only his lover could see the creamy expanse. The taller man reached for his collarbone and slowly trailed a single slender finger down his chest and abdomen, ending at his bellybutton. He moved the digit in a languorous circle around the feature, his eyes locked onto it as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. John could only watch with a slack jaw as the feature was stroked with agonising gentleness.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He leaned up and pressed his lips to Sherlock's face, feathering every inch of it with hot, open-mouthed kisses. The taste of his skin was marvelous: salty with a hint of the soap they shared. An image blazed into his mind: Sherlock rubbing a bar of soap across his naked, glistening body beneath a spray of water. With the image came the knowledge that John had rubbed that same bar of soap against all the same places, and they'd been transitively touching each other for over a year without ever realising it. The thought alone was enough to decisively end his patience with foreplay.

He shoved Sherlock back into a sitting position, barely pausing to give him time to adjust his legs. John was in his lap and grinding against him in one blurred frenzy of motion. They moaned in wanton harmony, swept up in the intensity of the friction created by their joined hips. John could feel Sherlock's cock straining against the confines of his trousers, and he fumbled to free it at the same time that the other man was tearing both of their shirts from their shoulders. They struggled with their remaining clothing amidst kisses, moans, and heated caresses until they were both naked and staring hungrily at each other.

They regarded each other for a long while, both panting and clearly determined to swallow the other one whole. John shifted slightly, pressing their bare cocks together, and rocked his hips experimentally. The pleasure that shot through him from this one simple action was indescribable. It felt like a small detonation in his lower abdomen, a localized Apocalypse of raw feeling. Sherlock's head fell back against the sofa, his lips parted and his eyes screwed shut in ecstasy. The doctor took advantage of the opportunity to lavish his creamy neck with kisses and then bit down on the junction of his shoulder. The startled moan he received in response was beyond rewarding.

"John," Sherlock rumbled, his voice sounding like sin and dirty thoughts, "I want you so much, but... we haven't discussed… how men are with one another."

It took the former soldier's desire-clouded mind a moment to decipher that, but when he did he smiled. Sherlock was over thinking things as always, his analytical mind never one to overlook a potentially important detail. He was concerned because neither of them had been with a man before, and to be honest John had mild trepidations about that as well.

This was  _Sherlock_ , though. Nothing bad could come from being with Sherlock.

He realised his silence had made the other man nervous when he saw a telltale flush spread across his gorgeous cheekbones. It was so uncharacteristically adorable, he couldn't help but grin. He knew precisely how to assuage his worries.

Without a word, he slid out of Sherlock's lap and down to the floor. The other man whimpered and gave him a perplexed look until his hand wrapped around the base of his erection. Sherlock sucked his breath in sharply at the same time that understanding flashed through his brilliant eyes.

"John." His name wasn't so much a word as it was audible, burning need. "You… you don't have to. I know it must be strange for y—oh,  _God yes_."

John silenced his protests by swallowing him whole. He could feel the vibrations of Sherlock's deep moan all the way down his body. It was the most erotic sensation he'd ever experienced in his life.

He never broke eye contact with his lover while he punctuated his next sentence by placing wet kisses up and down his shaft, "Sherlock, there is nothing strange about this. I may have only ever been with women, but I never wanted any of them the way I want you." He licked him once from base to tip and reveled in the shudder that passed through him. "Is being with another man going to be odd at first? Of course. Do I give two fucks either way? No. Why? Because everything about this is right, and by the way, you taste  _delicious._ "

Sherlock shivered and then gave him a look that was one part darkness and one part writhing hunger. John nearly orgasmed from that alone.

The doctor lowered his lips to the aching prick in front of him and began to suckle greedily. He wasn't just trying to sound sexy when he said he liked how Sherlock tasted. He tasted  _ridiculously_  good. It had to be some sort of pheromone thing, because his skin was sweet to his tongue in a way that wasn't rational. His heart fluttered nervously as he glanced up to monitor his lover's reaction to the touch. From the way Sherlock was panting and biting his lip, he guessed his first blowjob was going well. He supposed he was lucky that he'd been with so many women. He knew what he liked when a mouth was wrapped around him, and mimicking those motions was simple enough. It didn't keep him from feeling as anxious as an inexperienced teenager, though.

But then Sherlock's baritone moans were reverberating in the air, and the only thing that mattered was making that sound pour from him like a burst dam.

It was bewildering how much he was enjoying this. The sweet taste aside, Sherlock also smelled incredible - like musk and wood smoke - and the nest of soft black curls at the base of his prick was perfect for John to tangle his fingers in. His prick was perfect, too, in ways he'd never thought one could be. It was long and thin, just like him. His glans fit flawlessly against his soft palate, and the veins running up the shaft were spaced just right for his fingers to nestle in their grooves. The best part by far, however, was the continual stream of erotica Sherlock produced with every bob of John's head. He wasn't so much moaning as he was cursing at this point, stammering half-completed attempts at John's name, and clenching his fists in the sofa cushions as he desperately fought the desire to bury them in his lover's hair.

The idea that he was doing this to the most brilliant man he'd ever met made arousal spike so powerfully between his legs, it was painful. It seemed doubly dirty because Sherlock didn't curse often, and now a string of something akin to  _there, Jesus, fuck, oh_  was tumbling from him unrestrained.

He tasted salty precum and knew Sherlock wouldn't last much longer. His left hand was working the shaft up and down while his tongue lapped at the head, lavishing pressure and attention on the sensitive underside. He slid his free hand down and wrapped it around his neglected erection; it was begging for attention. The first stroke was heavenly—rough and pure friction—and he matched the timing so every pump of his fist coordinated with a long, powerful suck on Sherlock's prick. The man's increasingly loud moans were ringing in his ears every time he stroked himself, and the dual sensations created a feedback loop that threatened to unravel him completely.

Sherlock's control finally broke, and he fisted his hands in John's hair, rocking his hips slightly in time with the rhythm they'd established. They were both close now, and they knew it. They moved together, desperate to wring every last drop of pleasure out of themselves and each other. John closed his eyes, concentrating the whole of himself of moving his head and hand and on drinking in the sound of Sherlock's voice as it deepened, stuttered, and writhed along with his body. There was no other sound he wanted to hear more in the entire universe.

He could feel the tension in the taller man's body. He was so close,  _so close_ , and his back was arching, and his fingers were digging painfully into John's hair, and any moment now he was simply going to burst—

Sherlock came with a curse that John could feel burning on his skin. Something hot and salty was pouring into his mouth, and he swallowed it without a second thought. His attention was currently riveted on his lover's face. The other man's eyes were blown wide and dark, dazed in a way that meant they couldn't actually see anything. His mouth was slack, his cheeks were flushed, and his facial expression was a mixture of awe and raw satisfaction. He looked like a man who had just been shagged so thoroughly, he could hardly believe it.

One look at that face and two swift strokes of his fist drove John to a fiery completion. He pulled Sherlock's spent prick out of his mouth with a wet popping sound and shuddered as his release swept through him. He was vaguely aware of stammering something akin to the detective's name, but the sharp, tingling contractions sweeping through him reduced his cognitive processes to a shadow of their former selves.

When he finished, he collapsed on Sherlock's thighs, gasping and trembling slightly. They were going to need to make this a frequent activity of theirs. He felt rather than saw arms wrapping around his torso, and he allowed himself to be assisted up to the sofa. As soon as he was seated beside him, he snuggled up to his lover's chest, warm and sweaty and utterly content. He fit perfectly under Sherlock's chin, as if the alcove of his neck and shoulders had been designed to receive him.

"That was… incredible," a deep voice sounded near his ear.

"I thought so, too." He could fall asleep like this, and in fact his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.

"John," the deepness had a tinge of wariness to it now, "I know most individuals are reluctant to engage in prolonged conversation post-coital, but there is a matter that I wish to discuss."

The doctor chuckled sleepily. There was something adorable about the formality with which Sherlock spoke, as if they hadn't just touched each other inside and out.

"Go ahead, though I may fall asleep halfway through."

"I'm grateful you didn't say that before the blowjob." He paused long enough for John to snigger and then continued, "Things between us changed so quickly that I don't think we had an opportunity to consider what our actions entail."

John sat up a bit, searching his lover's face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that in my experience relationships are fragile, volatile things that are best avoided. I love being close with you this way, but if there were even the slightest chance it could cause complications between us, I would give it up in an instant and go back to the way things were."

The sincerity in his voice was the most genuine John had ever heard. He reached up and lightly brushed his thumb across one of Sherlock's sculpted cheekbones. "There can't be any going back now, Sherlock. Things are irrevocably different between us, and I wouldn't have it any other way. You don't need to worry about how this is going to change things between us. Moriarty told me something in the boathouse that gave me a fright at first, but now I realise it's the truth. He said you laid claim to me the day you met me and that there was a reason why we waltzed into each other's lives and rearranged everything without a second thought."

"And what reason is that?"

"You said it yourself. 'Ours is a lifelong bond.' It just is, and it always will be. I don't think we should waste our time fretting about something that was never a problem before."

Sherlock's stunning eyes were studying his face, and he met their scrutiny with quiet confidence. "Your opinion of me hasn't changed in the slightest since we began a physical relationship?"

"Not particularly. You're still an arrogant, overbearing, inconsiderate sod who happens to be incredibly beautiful and brilliant and perfect in every way."

"Indeed. I suppose you're correct."

"About how you're an arrogant sod?"

"That as well, but I meant the bit about not fretting without due cause. That would be the most logical manoeuvre for us to make at this stage in our relationship." His eyes flicked to the ceiling. The sun had finally come out from behind the clouds just in time to set; bands of golden light filtered through the blinds and splayed across the walls.

John took advantage of the opportunity to simply stare at him, marvelling at how his features melded seamlessly together. "What are we calling ourselves?"

"I'm Sherlock, and you're John."

"Thanks so much for clarifying that, but I meant that people in relationships generally call themselves something."

"I've always wondered about that practice. Seems rather pointless."

"It's mostly just a quick way to let others know not to try to court your spouse. Some people take titles very seriously, however."

Sherlock's gaze returned to his face, and John felt it like rain-coloured satin on his skin. "Are you one of those people?"

"No, but now that everyone down at the police station knows we're together, or at least shagging, they're going to ask questions. It would be good for us to have our stories straight."

Sherlock appeared to mull that over. John watched the gears tick behind his eyes and realised he would likely never get tired of watching that. "I don't know. Calling you my boyfriend seems ridiculous for some reason. You have already been my partner, friend, and colleague, so all of those would fail to note the alteration in our behaviour towards each other. Lover sounds too dramatic, and I would like it very much if we could stay far, far away from any pet names." He paused, still thinking, and then turned the full force of his gaze on the man snuggled up to his side. "There isn't a word for us. We're something entirely new that other people haven't thought of yet."

"What shall we do then?"

"We'll have to invent a name for us in the same fashion in which I invented the position of consulting detective."

"I think that sounds perfect."

They laid together in companionable silence for an immeasurable amount of time. They watched the sunlight fade slowly from the walls and heard the city grow quiet outside their window. Neither of them had the slightest desire to move, and for one perfect moment, John felt like he could simply exist there, next to Sherlock, with their hearts beating within inches of each other, and life would be a beautiful thing.

Time marched on, however, and there were still some things they needed to talk about.

John was the first to shatter the moment. "This is what Moriarty wanted, you know."

Sherlock placed one large hand in his hair and began to stroke it gently. "Yes, I do know. He thinks I'll be weak now."

"Is that what you think?"

"No."

"Why?"

Sherlock kissed his hair gently. "Did you not wonder why Moriarty never attempted to conceal his plan from us? He told you precisely what he was going to do the very day he started this deranged scheme, and he wasn't exactly subtle about it with me either. That was because he knew this was going to happen eventually anyways. He saw the magnets attached to us and knew it was only a matter of time before we were drawn together. He simply wished to speed up the process."

John's head reeled at the thought. Magnets. Polar opposites. It was so fitting it was frightening. "What if he's right, though? What if he finds some way to use this against you?"

"What can he do? Sexually frustrate me to death?"

"I dunno, but Moriarty's not an idiot. There must be some form of greater purpose behind this. He said he wanted you to fall in love, but that can't be all there is to it. Getting us to shag isn't defeating you, and he knows that. He has something else planned, and if I end up playing some instrumental part in getting you killed, I—."

His voice broke, and Sherlock wrapped his free arm around his chest, pulling their bodies closely together. "That's not going to happen, John. You are not going to be my ruin. If anything, you are my salvation."

"How can you know that for certain?"

Sherlock stilled his hand in John's hair, and the doctor glanced up at him. His icy-ashy eyes were soft and filled with a warmth that he'd never seen in them before. It was a stunningly beautiful sight.

"I know because loving you can't possibly be a bad thing."

John very nearly melted into the floor.

He struggled for several minutes to think of something, anything he could say in response, but in the end he merely placed his head back on Sherlock's chest, and the detective continued threading his fingers through his hair.

They spent the night in precisely that fashion: naked, twined together, and wrapped in the comforting knowledge that nothing more needed to be said.

…

…

Sherlock watched the man next to him breathe. It was funny how such a small amount of time had made the most mundane activities fascinating to him. Dr John Watson was inhaling and exhaling, converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, and the thought of that simple, unconscious action utterly delighted him. He loved this form of his breathing the best, when the pulls of air he took were deep and slow. He was sleeping, perchance on the verge of starting one of the many dream cycles he would have in the night. The detective would have given up a great many things in order to steal into that funny brain and watch his dreams like a film reel. He wanted more than what was said or thought; he wanted the final retreat, the only aspect of John that was forever hidden from him, the deepest thoughts that even he was unaware of. He wanted all of it.

His mobile vibrated from inside a pocket across the room. His trousers were strewn over John's usual chair, a fitting image to the claim he'd laid that day. As surreptitiously as he could manage, Sherlock untangled himself from the warm, surprisingly soft embrace of the former soldier, careful to leave him in a position that he could easily slide back into. It was midnight by now if his internal clock was the slightest bit accurate, which it always was. John was by his side, and Mrs Hudson had long since gone to bed. That meant the text was likely from either the police force or a foreigner in a different time zone.

He extracted his phone from the pocket of his trousers and glanced at it uncaringly.

_It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. - JM_

He scanned the text twice before replacing the phone in his trouser pocket and sauntering back over to John.

Only once he was safely wrapped in the protective embrace of his lover did he allow himself to think of what the next 24 hours would likely hold for them.

...

...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time in their relationship, Dr John Watson made Sherlock Holmes question his religious beliefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the last!

…

…

"You can't be bloody serious!" John clenched his hands into fists at his sides, not out of anger but out of incredulity. "How could you lot have possibly known before I did?"

"Come now, John," Lestrade said, shooting him a smug grin, "it really wasn't that much of a leap. People were saying it from the start."

"But you knew I fancied women! You even commented on it yesterday!"

"Some people are known to have a stroll down both roads, you know."

John passed an exasperated hand over his eyes. Un-bloody-believable. He'd come down to the police station that day—dragging a reluctant and frankly petulant Sherlock along with him—with the intention of clearing the air before every officer in London knew what they got up to behind closed doors. They'd been greeted not with the expected furtive glances or hushed voices but with thunderous applause. Even Donovan and Anderson cheered for them when they walked through the front door. It seemed news had not only spread quickly but had been merrily received.

Relieved as he was by the lack of venom, John wasn't quite ready to give up the fight. He'd immediately cornered Lestrade in his office and begun a valiant but ultimately futile defence of his sexuality. It didn't help that Sherlock was being completely useless, refusing to say a word either way for once in his life. Couldn't the prat choose more convenient times to be opinionated?

The doctor exhaled heavily. "When Sherlock told you yesterday that… well, you remember, the bit about us being in bed, you rolled your eyes and thought he was being sarcastic."

"Coming from him, that was certainly what I expected, but I never ruled out the frankly likely possibility that he meant every word." The DI clapped John affectionately on the back. "Sorry you had to find out this way, but you'd best accept it. No one is even the tiniest bit surprised that you and Sherlock are laying back and thinking of England together. There was always something between you two; we all saw it."

Sherlock stopped pacing on the far side of the DI's office and shot John a bored look. "This is really not a constructive use of my time."

"I know it's not, but you'll just have to forgive me for being a bit indignant. Twenty-four hours ago no one would have questioned my sexuality."

"They questioned your sexuality constantly, as evidenced by their ready acceptance of its expansion."

"Oh, shut up." The former soldier rubbed his face one more time and sighed. Sherlock was correct on all points, as per usual, and it endlessly irritated him. "Right then. I suppose that's that."

"Indeed." Sherlock swept up to his side in a few elegant bounds, and John had to keep himself from visibly reacting to his sudden proximity. He glanced at the DI and saw from his mischievous grin that he knew precisely what was running through his thoughts. "Lestrade, if you'd be so kind as to direct us towards anything of interest that you come across, we'd be much obliged. There is still a mad bomber running loose, if you'd all care to remember. I believe John is finished wasting our time, and so we will be going."

Lestrade's grin shifted into a genuine smile. "It really is quite nice, Sherlock."

"What is?"

"Hearing you say 'we'. You're a 'we' and an 'us' now. It suits you, despite what you may think."

Sherlock didn't respond, and John would have given anything in the world to crack open his skull and read the thoughts that were surely blazing through it.

Just then, there was a familiar vibrating sound. The consulting detective reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his mobile, and tapped the screen. His eyes widened fractionally as he read what was apparently a surprising text. John was dying to beg the obvious question, but the gears he could see ticking behind the other man's eyes said quite clearly that he shouldn't be disturbed.

After what felt like ages of anxious waiting, Sherlock uttered a single word.

"Moriarty."

John sucked in a tense breath. "What does he want now?"

"He wants me to gather 'the least incompetent members of Scotland Yard' and meet him at a nearby refuse compaction site."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "From what you've told me of this lunatic, piles of rubbish don't seem like his usual choice of setting."

"They're most assuredly not. I imagine this factors into some new scheme of his."

"So we'll be walking into a trap, then?"

"Precisely."

"Oh, good. I'll go tell the others."

The DI strode quickly out of his office, already barking orders at the other officers. John had eyes only for Sherlock, however. The detective's long face was made longer by his strangely grave expression, indicating that there was much more going on behind his crystal eyes than the doctor could glean from sight alone. He waited patiently, knowing that trying to cajole the other man into sharing when he didn't want to would be pointless.

An immeasurable amount of time passed, but Sherlock's gaze did finally drift down to John's face. "You were right, John."

"Can you say that again? I want to make it my new ringtone."

The detective snorted, but his serious expression never faltered. "Moriarty does have something bigger in store for us, just as you said. This is going to be the final act of his play."

John stopped grinning when the gravity of the detective's words sunk in. "You're serious?"

"Quite. The pinnacle of all his scheming is about to come to fruition." His eyes focused on him intensely, as if they were trying to drill into his brain. "Do you feel prepared for the danger we're about to face?"

"Do you really have to ask? You said 'danger', and here I am."

"Excellent." Sherlock ducked quickly down and sealed their lips together in a brief but heated kiss.

Before John could do more than turn red and glance guiltily around to see if anyone was watching them, the consulting detective was out the door. The next hour consisted of gathering a dozen confused officers—Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson amongst their number—and listening to Sherlock insist that Moriarty's competence specification eliminated at least half of them from inclusion. When their forces were finally gathered and deemed acceptable to the discriminating detective, they began their migration to the scene of future crimes. Lestrade reluctantly allowed them to take a separate taxi to the site, though several of his men and women audibly groaned at missing the chance to place Sherlock in the back of a police car.

The ride only took about fifteen minutes, but John felt each and every second in his clenched jaw and tapping foot. There were mad for even considering doing this, but then again that term applied to the vast majority of the things Sherlock got him into. An eternity of tense silence later, they arrived at one of the oddest locations he'd ever had the misfortune of gazing upon. Towering piles of scrap metal and cubes of compacted rubbish divided the land and sky into sections for several kilometers. It almost looked like a series of giant abstract sculptures, or a forest made of metal and plastic. Though the sun was smothered beneath the gray haze that had swallowed the sky, the heaps cast long, eerie shadows behind them. John fought the urge to shiver.

There was no sign of Moriarty, but then no one had expected him to be waiting to greet them at the entrance. After several moments of tense discussion and a string of increasingly unhelpful comments from Sherlock, they divided into pairs and spread out, guns in hand. John could only roll his eyes when the consulting detective and he were placed together with many a wink and cheer. Really, had everyone forgotten they were about to walk into a trap?

The tightly-knit distribution of the piles created pseudo-walls and winding paths for them to follow. It was convenient for quick, furtive movement but made it impossible to keep the other groups in sight at all times. That meant Sherlock and John were left alone together for long stretches of anxious silence as they navigated the dump. They scanned the landscape continuously for any sign of Moriarty as they ran, ducking stealthily behind one protrusion after the next. Within minutes it was impossible for John to tell how deep into the enclosure they were, though he was certain Sherlock was somehow following a mental map of the area.

The silence grew until it was deafening in the doctor's ears, punctuated only by the pattering of their hurried footsteps. He couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that they'd made a horrible mistake in coming here. Rushing towards a psychopath had never been high on his list of things to do in life. The ever-present knowledge that something sinister undoubtedly awaited them beat at the edges of his subconscious. What were they going to find when they arrived at the final scene of this twisted orchestration?

Just as the number of questions vying for his attention began to grow suffocating, they heard a sound.

Laughter.

Shrill, cruel laughter.

It was faint, but easily within a few hundred metres of them. The two men exchanged knowing glances before sprinting in its direction. John's heart pumped adrenaline—hot and heady—into his bloodstream. The solution to a long-awaited problem lay just around one of these bends. As much as he hated to play into his tormentor's hands, he knew he had no better alternative.

His eyes were fixed intently in the direction of the sound, his heart and feet keeping a steady rhythm as they pounded together. He was moving on instinct now, allowing himself to melt into the role of ruthless soldier. It was like sinking into the mind of a machine: he ceased to be John Watson and became a purpose instead. His time in Afghanistan had made it far too easy for him to leave his emotions behind and turn his focus into laser-like intensity that saw nothing but the mission, the all-encompassing thirst for victory.

By the time he realised Sherlock was no longer by his side, it was too late.

He whipped his head around, though his pace never slowed. The detective was nowhere in sight.

They'd been separated so neatly, it couldn't have been by anything but design. There wasn't time for him to double back and figure out which side route Sherlock had taken. He would have to hope their paths would soon cross if they both kept moving forward.

John spotted an opening in front of him and tore towards it. The walls of rubbish gave way to a clearing of sorts, and with a shock that left him burning inside he recognised the grave error he'd made. Moriarty was standing in the centre of the open space with a saccharine smile on his face.

The air left John's lungs so quickly he might have slammed into a brick wall.

They weren't in a landfill. They were in a maze, and Moriarty was the cheese at the end

…

…

Despite his calm exterior, Sherlock was writhing inside with a mixture of anxiety and exhilaration.

John was running a bit ahead of him, his face set with the grim resolve that meant the doctor was out and the soldier was in. They would reach the source of the laughter in half a minute by his estimation, and then this perverse showdown would begin in earnest. The detective could only hope that Lestrade and the others would either find a way to become useful or keep wandering around the dump in their usual blissfully ignorant fashion until he resolved the matter conclusively.

A flash of movement to the left caught Sherlock's eye. He saw a grinning face—too far away to identify yet certainly familiar—duck down a side path and into the shadows. He turned towards it without a second thought, his long legs flying out to bolster his momentum. Later he would wonder how he ever allowed himself to make such an elementary mistake, but at the moment his brilliant mind was occupied with a single thought: get Moriarty.

He turned a sharp corner and skidded to a stop. There was a fork ahead of him that led to three separate paths. He scanned them quickly, deducing from the lack of footprints or evidence of hasty concealment of them that no one had travelled down any of them recently. That meant whoever had been attached to that face was still here somewhere. He turned around cautiously, his eyes quickly flitting over the rubbish around him. It was a perfect albeit unsanitary place to hide, considering the vast number of nooks into which a person might climb.

Sherlock was about to dive into a pile when something chilling caught his eye. There was a mannequin propped up next to an old wooden wardrobe. It was fairly standard, as far as plastic men in suits are concerned, except for the ghastly, twisted grin that split its face in half. The wardrobe's doors were unlocked and swung open when the wind was strong enough. They alternately obscured the grinning face and revealed it depending on their position.

The detective felt his entire body grow cold. Moriarty had already figured them out. He'd known the exact path they'd take through the dump, the fact that Sherlock would leave John's side to chase him down, and that the swinging doors made it look like the mannequin was moving. He was the only man besides the detective himself who could have done it. It was elegant, the way the criminal's mind ticked so flawlessly, ticked to the same beat as his. Sherlock would have to compliment him on it before he squeezed his fingers around his neck.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock's abilities were useless.

He knew precisely what was going to happen but was powerless to stop it.

He sprinted back the way he'd come, fighting down the panic that was creeping up his spine. John was gone, of course, and if he wasn't already in Moriarty's clutches it would be a miracle. Sherlock reached the fork at which he'd detoured and took off in the direction of the doctor's footsteps. His veins felt like they were pumping a mixture of splinters and cocaine. He felt light-headed and heavy and burning and freezing at the same time.  _God, not again_  kept repeating in his head.

He broke through the rubble and into a clearing. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was so cliché, it was painful. Like a scene from a B-list spy film.

Moriarty was smiling at him in a way that could only be described as pitying. John was shackled to what appeared to be an old medical examination table. At least a dozen thick chains and padlocks held him in place. There was a large blade, one reminiscent of a guillotine, attached to a crane whose body was several metres to the left. The consulting criminal had some form of black remote in his hand, and it didn't take Sherlock long to figure out what it must control.

The detective crossed his arms casually over his chest. "Really, Jim, you should stick to explosives. They suit you better."

Moriarty wasn't grinning so much as he was baring his teeth. "But it's so perfect, Shirley! Every good villain needs a slow-moving death trap that leaves the hero with plenty of time to wriggle free from his restraints. You just can't appreciate the classics, can you?"

Sherlock took a cautious step forward and saw the other man's finger twitch over a button on the remote. He froze, and Moriarty nodded slowly. "Very good, darling. I love it when you're obedient. I'm sure you've worked it out by now: if you come any closer, I'll slice your precious pet in twain."

"Feeling medieval, are we? That's not a genuine guillotine blade, I presume."

"It is, actually. You know how I love to be thorough."

Sherlock's eyes darted toward John. The doctor had a nasty cut just above his temple—probably from a blunt blow to the head—but he was conscious and craning his neck to look at him. His mouth had been covered with duct tape, but that was hardly a barrier for a trained soldier. It took him less than ten seconds to blink his message in Morse code: "G-E-T-H-I-M."

The detective felt like a cold hand was squeezing his heart. He knew his eyes were already responding, though not with blinks.  _No, John. Never, John._ _  
_

He turned back to the psychopath and observed that he seemed content to stand there and watch their silent communication for the moment. His relaxed, open body language spoke volumes to Sherlock.

"You're not concerned about Lestrade or the other officers?"

"Not in the slightest. I made a few deductions of my own as to where they were likely to wander, and they've all encountered distractions much like you did. It will take some of them quite a while to extract themselves from my traps."

"Then why did you ask me to bring them at all?"

Moriarty threw his arms into the air and twirled in place as he shouted, "Because what's the fun in murdering someone if there's no audience! Really, dearie, you have no sense of showmanship whatsoever. Besides, someone will need to come along and collect you eventually, or else I suspect you'll stay draped over your lover's mangled corpse forever."

With a flourish of his arms he held the remote out in front of his face and pressed a button with a single finger. Sherlock's heart stopped beating, and his head snapped up to the blade hanging high above John. It didn't drop as he'd feared it would but rather slowly began to lower. It was approximately thirty metres up, and some quick calculations told him he had less than four minutes before it would reach John's tender flesh.

Moriarty flung the remote hard away from him and then giggled, his hands clasped to the side of his face. Sherlock started to run after it, but it was useless. It sailed high up into one of the rubbish heaps and disappeared. There was no way he would be able to find it before…

"I don't suppose I need to explain what's going to happen to you, darling?" The consulting criminal brushed imaginary lint from his lapels with extravagant flicks of his fingers. "That blade is sharp enough to cut your good doctor clean through, and you have very little time to prevent that from happening. But there's more.  _So much moooooooore!_  Would you like to know what it is?"

Sherlock was rapidly losing his patience. John was in danger, and idle banter was not something he felt inclined to engage in at the moment. "Get to the point  _this instant._ "

Moriarty's smile was beatific. "It's not enough for me to know I've beaten you, Sherlock." His voice dropped to a quiet, intense hum that matched his darkening eyes. "You have to know it, too."

"You haven't won anything yet."

" _Yet._  Precisely. But I'm about to." He spun around with a sweep of his arms, indicating the empty space around them. "The cavalry won't be here for minutes still, and that's less time than you have left to save your heart before it burns. But what about little ol' me, you must ask?"

Sherlock's chest filled with ice as he finally pieced the maniac's horrible plan together. For one of them, it would be the ultimate victory. For the other, it would be the end.

 _The_  end.

"You have to make a choice, Sherlock." The Irishman slid his hands into the pockets of his suit and smiled oh-so-gently. "You can save the good doctor, or you can capture me. You can't do both."

Sherlock's voice was steady and calm, belying not a drop of the turmoil he felt. "I can always find you later, you know."

Moriarty's entire manner shifted so quickly, the detective blinked and missed it. Gone was the maniacal grin. Gone was the relaxed manner. His face twisted into an expression of gruesome rage, and when he spoke next his voice was raw and slithering. "No,  _darling_ , you caaaaan't. How many times have you found me on your own? Not once. Who always orchestrates these meetings between us? Me. You only see me when I want to be seen, and  _you know it_."

Sherlock's normally buzzing mind grew quiet as the magnitude of what his rival was saying slowly began to sink in.

Moriarty gave the knife a final twist. "If you let me go this time, you won't get another chance. You will  _never_  capture me. I will be king, and you'll be the sad, defeated man who watched me walk away, the pathetic little footnote in the annals of history that never made it into the actual pages. You won't see me again until the day I place a sniper's red light between your eyes for the last time, and then it will all be over."

For one impossible moment, the world shuddered to a stop on its axis. There was nothing but complete, utter stillness, and everything was silent.

If Sherlock gave up now, he would lose.

Decisively. Irrevocably. Absolutely.

It would be the end. Forever.

The detective's clear eyes were steady as he regarded Moriarty's face. "That's cute."

The maniac grinned demonically. "Much as I do love compliments, I can't help but ask: what's cute?"

"The fact that you're expecting me to hesitate."

Without another word, Sherlock ran over to the metal slab on which John had been restrained and began picking locks faster than he had ever done in his life. The first one snapped open in under thirty seconds, but it wasn't fast enough. There had to be a more clever way of doing this.

He heard a breathy chuckle behind him, and despite his better judgment he turned his head.

Moriarty was staring at him with something akin to murderous wonder in his eyes. He reminded Sherlock of a time when he'd concealed himself in a killer's kitchen, waiting for the proper moment to spring out and capture him. He'd watched the man reverently dismember the body of one of his victims on his kitchen table. He'd moved slowly, gently, and with admirable precision, as if he simply couldn't stand to mar the flesh of the victim he'd stabbed a dozen times. It hadn't made sense to Sherlock at the time, but now it did. He understood the adoration and the rage and the spasm. In the minds of the truly insane, the beautiful and the revolting coincide. They love the very thing that fills them with savagery.

Moriarty sneered. "My God, you're disgusting."

Sherlock resisted a somewhat hysterical impulse to stick out his tongue and turned back to John. His eyes flickered rapidly over the series of chains and padlocks securing him while keeping an eye on the blade creeping ever closer above their heads. It was gleaming wickedly like a single, curved serpent fang. There had to be some strategy behind this, something that could allow John to wriggle free without needing every lock to be opened.

"You're not even ashamed of how easily you let me manipulate you." Moriarty's voice was like a swarm of buzzing insects in his ear, distracting him. "You were proud once, you know. You were glorious. All of London was laid out at your feet, and you could have molded it into your own personal playground,  _BUT LOOK AT YOU NOW_!" His scream sounded like screeching metal and echoed eerily around them.

Sherlock glanced back at him and saw that his rival was panting, his fists clenched and shaking at his side and his face bright red like fresh blood. His expression was twisted into something ghastly.

"You're giving up the game. The work. The chase. For  _that?"_ Moriarty was truly shrieking now. "That slab of  _meat_  in front of you? That heap of organs and juices? That useless, mindless, nauseating beast that spends its whole life rolling around in the mud and never thinks to look up at the sky?"

"If I didn't know better, Jim, I'd think you were jealous."

Moriarty's entire body stiffened. He was perfectly still for one aching moment but then the anger melted off of him like dripping candle wax. Back was the grinning skull, the easy-going solicitude that meant he was seconds away from doing something sickening.

"I see it now, Sherlock. I let your pretty face cloud my judgment and gave you too much credit. You're not like me at all.  _You_  are just like  _them_ , and now I've proven it. I've beaten you, Sherlock, and it wasn't even terribly difficult to do. You've proven yourself to be another insignificant worm. I have finally won our game, and when the time comes for me to kill you, I doubt I'll still remember why I'm bothering."

Sherlock didn't even blink. "You're wrong, Jim. I was wrong. Love isn't a weakness or a chemical defect. Love is the only reason I can enjoy anything I do, from solving cases to seeing John's face first thing in the morning. It was stupid of you to try to beat me this way. I loved John the first day I met him, not as a lover or a friend, but as someone who was flawed and difficult and perfect in every way. I love Mrs Hudson, too, and Lestrade, and Molly, and everyone else in their own way. You can't spend your whole life studying humanity and not love the thing itself. You didn't force me to fall in love. I was already hopelessly entangled in it."

Absolute, unearthly, lethal silence pulsed between them. It was so quiet it roared.

Then without another word, Moriarty turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows. Sherlock had the distinct impression of a cape being swirled over his shoulders as he left. He truly was the epitome of a good old-fashioned villain.

If any part of him was bothered by what his former nemesis had said, it was buried under the white-hot panicky mound of his concern for John. He estimated that they had approximately one more minute before the blade would kill them both—Sherlock intended to remain right by his side until he was either free or they were both dead—and at his current rate of lock picking, it was physically impossible for him to save his lover.

He ripped the duct tape from John's mouth. "Is there some way to get you out of this faster?"

The doctor sputtered for a moment and then sucked in a quick breath. "No. Sherlock, listen, before this happens, there's something you have to know. I—."

Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth, talking rapidly, "No, John, don't say it now. Not because we're about to die. I already know you do, and I want to hear you say it when we're both safe and warm in Baker Street.  _I will get you out of this._ "

The doctor fell silent, and when Sherlock removed his hand, they were both pleased when he replaced it with his lips. The kiss was tremulous and desperate, but if they had to die, this was certainly the way to do it.

Lightning struck through the detective.

He gasped and stumbled back. Oh God, he'd been an idiot.  _How could he not have seen it sooner?_  There was a main chain, one that wrapped around John's whole body before snaking under the table. The rest were laid over it or intertwined with it, but they were really just supporting roles. If he could loosen that one chain, he could grab John and wriggle him out from under the rest of them. It was hopeless and probably impossible, but it was the best shot they had.

He didn't bother explaining his plan; he just threw himself at the lock that held the middle chain in place. He estimated he had thirty seconds left to do this, and there was just no way…

His fingers worked the small tools in his hand in a blur; for once his body was moving as quickly as his mind. He heard tumblers clicking into place, but all he could think was  _please please please please._  Another click meant another tumbler. How many were left? He thought he knew but his mind kept skittering between the task at hand and the beautiful, precious man lying helplessly on the table in front of him. John could  _not_  die in front of him, not when there was something he could have done about it. This absolutely  _could not happen_ —

For the second time in their relationship, Dr John Watson made Sherlock Holmes question his religious beliefs. A miracle occurred right in front of his eyes.

The lock snapped open.

In a flash, his hands gripped John's shoulders and yanked with all his strength. The doctor's foot got caught on several chains, and he had to wriggle his hips to get out from under a snag, but his body pulled free from the slab just as Sherlock had thought it would. The two men stumbled back and fell to the ground together just as a loud  _clang_  rang out. The blade sunk down on the table, and the whole thing collapsed, throwing dust into the air.

The two men lay panting on the ground, partially entangled, staring at the blade poking out of the other metal like they couldn't believe what they were seeing. Slowly, ever so slowly, their heads turned, and they looked at each other from inches away, their quick breaths mingling between them. They stayed like that until they were both dizzy from breathing each other's carbon dioxide.

Then John lifted one hand and placed it tenderly on his lover's cheek. "Hello."

Sherlock snorted. Of course that was John's opening line after a near-death experience. "Are you all right?"

He watched as John nodded slowly. John. Just John. Alive and healthy and perfect and  _his_.

He wrapped his arms around the shorter man and pulled him so hard against his chest it must have been painful. The doctor didn't complain, however, and soon Sherlock felt strong fingers digging into his shoulder.

They were alive. They were together.

Nothing Moriarty could say or do could ruin the undiluted happiness Sherlock felt in that moment.

…

…


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

…

…

By the time Lestrade and the rest of the police force caught up with them, Moriarty had vanished. Though the officers made a valiant attempt to follow his trail, Sherlock knew it was pointless. The master criminal was only ever found when he wanted to be, and this time it seemed he intended to disappear forever. Or at least until he reemerged to murder them all.

The world's only consulting detective had missed his final chance to defeat his greatest opponent. He'd lost. It was all over now.

And he didn't give one bloody fuck about it.

John was warm and strong against his side, his arms wrapped firmly around Sherlock's waist despite the fact that many of Scotland Yard's finest were openly staring at them. They were still lying in a heap of limbs on the ground, having failed to summon the desire to stand even though it had been half an hour since they'd fallen there together. The ruined death trap had been marked off with yellow caution tape, and dozens of people were scurrying around them with evidence bags like ants in an upturned hill. Nothing, however, could compel them to loosen their grips on each other, not Lestrade demanding they file a report, Anderson's smug remarks or even the futile efforts of the paramedics to put shock blankets around their shoulders.

Sometimes they spoke, little murmurs under their breath that only they could hear. Sometimes they gazed at each other, their eyes deep and whirling. For the most part, however, they were just holding each other, appreciating the warmth and life sitting next to them, the human being who meant so much more than flesh and bone. Nagging voices in the backs of their minds kept asking them what their lives would have been like if it weren't for that fateful day when two disparate individuals happened to need a flatmate, but they muffled them quickly. It was unthinkable. Gravity had brought them together, and that particular force of nature would not be defied.

The cab ride home was a single blip on Time's radar. Before they knew it, they were standing just within the door of 221B Baker Street without entirely knowing how or when they'd arrived. Two sets of feet trudged up the same staircase they'd climbed a hundred times before and walked into the same living room, yet everything looked foreign. Their eyes had been fundamentally altered to perceive the flat for what it really was: their life together. Their sofa, their piles of case folders, their scattered newspapers and half-drunk cups of tea. The flat wasn't a collection of furniture and personal possessions anymore; it was a map of the time they'd spent together, twisting and winding around them both until it curved off into infinity. It was every lingering glance when they thought the other man wasn't looking and every row over eyeballs in the crisper. It was the ever-present knowledge that their relationship was slowly changing them both, and it was all the time they'd wasted pretending they didn't realise it.

John took Sherlock by the hand, wrapping his firm, tan fingers around the other man's long, pale ones, and slowly tugged him towards the bedroom they now shared. There was one thing that had yet to happen between them, one urge they'd both hesitated to act upon because somehow it would make all of this real. Dreams, as flighty and fleeting as they were by nature, were intangible, which meant they could never be shattered. To make it real would mean to risk that one day it could fall apart, as all physical things eventually did. _  
_

Sherlock was ready for this to be real, though. He was ready to peel away the flesh above his heart, tenderly remove it from his chest, and place it in the care of another. It was unthinkable, handing something so fragile and soft over to someone else, but somehow it exhilarated him. He'd wasted so many years warring within himself, warring against the humanity he refused to acknowledge yet couldn't fully extinguish. When John had entered his life, it had been like a small leak had sprung in a blocked stream inside of him. As their friendship grew, more and more of it started to break through and trickle into his veins. Now, as John looked at him with love and wonder in his eyes, he could feel something bursting inside of him, flowing uninterrupted from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. It was warm, and it reverberated pleasantly in his chest like the vibration of violin strings. He'd been so lost and so afraid of his own thoughts, but now he could finally be at peace with himself. Someone loved him. Someone understood him. He didn't have to be alone ever again, and for the first time in his life, he didn't want to be.

They fell together onto their bed. Their hands moved unhurriedly over each other's bodies, exploring and touching and tugging clothing open. They both felt the heat simmering just beneath their skin, but they moved slowly, reveling in every detail of each other's bodies as they were slowly revealed.

Sherlock decided that John had the most perfect skin in existence. His entire life story was scrawled across it in a language only a lover could decipher. The collection of scars and freckles told a tale, and the detective took great care in running his mouth over each and every one. He lingered over the bullet wound in John's shoulder, dipping his tongue into the small hole of knotted flesh that would never fully mend. This was the wound that had sent John to him. This was the end result of an act of hatred that had changed their lives fantastically. He had never been one for bouts of optimism, but he allowed himself to think for one fleeting moment that the worst of human atrocities could breed wonders in their wake.

John was quivering beneath him as he reverently examined the story written on his flesh. His calloused hands—flecked with innumerable scars—spoke volumes of his time as a doctor and a soldier, a healer and a killer. Laughter and sorrow were etched into the lines around his eyes and lips. His burdens were carried in the bags beneath his eyes. His sandy hair and the unusual shade of his dark blue eyes were the work of ancestors he would never meet. Every strand of hair and corded muscle combined to form the body of John Watson, and they whispered a sad and beautiful history into Sherlock's ears.

John was touching him now, and he bit his bottom lip hard to keep from moaning obscenely. The tingling inside his chest was growing stronger, spreading into the tips of his fingers and feeling like light and velvet. He had never been more turned on in his life, but he couldn't restrain his desire to look at every inch of his lover until he had him memorized. He wanted to count his eyelashes and make a stone rubbing of his ribs.

John had neither Sherlock's patience nor his penchant for cataloguing minute details. Before the detective could so much as exhale, he found himself on his back, pressed into the mattress as a flushed and golden John Watson crawled on top of him. His innards shivered and leapt into his throat at the sight, and a spike of hot desire rushed through him only to pool low in his abdomen. John's eyes were dancing over him, mapping his body in much the same way Sherlock had done to him moments before. They had become constellations that only the other man could decipher.

"You're magnificent," the doctor whispered before leaning down to claim his lover's lips with his own.

The kiss started out gentle but quickly grew urgent as the taste of each other coated their tongues. Their bodies moved hungrily together, touching and rubbing in a futile attempt to satiate their need. This was different from the other times they'd come together, wrung moans from each other's throats and eagerly drunk them down. This was infinitely more intimate and had lifetimes of adoring intent behind it. This was what John had been talking about what seemed like ages ago. This was about  _them_ , pleasing and loving each other on a deeper level than merely catering to their bodies' needs. Sex may have been a matter of biology, but this was a matter of chemistry.

When John's hand wrapped firmly around his prick, Sherlock hissed and arched his back until the cartilage audibly popped. Desire—hot and dark and primal—overloaded the circuitry in his brilliant mind and made the edges of his vision crackle. He shoved a hand between their bodies and fumbled for John's erection, eager to return the favour before he lost all ability to form coherent thoughts. He heard John exhale breathily and felt his cock twitch in response. Never had another individual's respiratory patterns thrilled him so completely. He stroked him in long, languid pumps, drawing out his pleasure until he both felt and heard him shudder. Their sensations were linked, dependent on not only what they were feeling but what the other was feeling as well. Sherlock experienced each and every one John's moans as if they were his own. He fed on them like fire licking at the edges of an endless source of fuel. The inferno mounted higher and higher until he knew the dénouement waiting for them was going to be akin to a localised Apocalypse.

It wasn't enough to simply touch each other. Sherlock felt an ache deep within his body that was snarling at him, demanding to be fed. He was hollow inside, and John was the only being in the history of existence that could fill him. This went beyond physical need and into the realm of spiritual epiphany. John was a piece of himself—something like a soul, the kind that he'd heard religions digress endlessly about—and without it he would burst into a thousand smoldering pieces.

John knew it too. Sherlock could see it in the feverish gleam in his eyes and the way he simply could not stop trembling. The doctor looked helplessly at him, and in an instant he understood. He reached over to his nightstand and pawed at the drawer, only partially able to function while this much raw need was pulsing through his body. He'd known this moment would come and had prepared accordingly. From his bedside table he produced a bottle of lubrication and shoved it impatiently into John's hand. He'd also purchased condoms, but to his delight John had "secretly" been tested for any STDs shortly before the first time any fluids had been exchanged between them. Sherlock had found the paperwork in his sock drawer, all of which joyously declared that John was as clean as could be. He himself was routinely tested due to his past struggles with addiction and the amount of time he spent handling blood and other biological samples. Even in a laboratory setting, one could never be too careful. They were free to join their bodies together without the slightest trepidation.

"Sherlock," John murmured as he opened the bottle and poured a generous amount of lube on his right index finger. "I need you so badly."

The detective responded by spreading his legs wider, gasping quietly when he saw the quiver that ran through his lover in response to that small action. John reached carefully down between them and prodded at Sherlock's entrance, smearing a layer of lubricant around the ring of muscle. He pushed slowly in, biting his lip to suppress the moan Sherlock could hear simply by looking at the way his neck tendons were sticking out. The detective watched his lover's face as his body was invaded and could feel what John was thinking. He wanted so desperately to bury himself in him but refused to hurt him. The mild pain and burning sensations were forgotten in lieu of admiring this inner dialogue.

Only when the head of John's prick was pressed to his entrance did the reality of it finally set in. They were going to feel each other inside and out, and it was going to be so much more than either of them ever thought they could expect from life.

John pushed into him, and Sherlock experienced every inch as the splitting of his consciousness. His brain was floating in a sea of hormones and dopamine, and his thoughts were swathed in gauze. His body was floundering in too many sensations for it to categorise. He was burning and writhing and howling, and he had absolutely no control over this helpless shell of flesh that was gripping onto John's shoulders for dear life. He felt his lover sink himself to the root inside of him, and in one blinding moment of white, everything that he was knit itself together with everything that was John.

The doctor made a keening sound and shivered so violently, his whole body vibrated. Then he rocked his hips experimentally inside of him, and they both groaned together. The sensation Sherlock felt in that moment was betrayed by the confines of the English language. It was perfection and undulation and cosmos and microbe and everything and nothing all rolled into one impossibility that made him dizzy at the thought of assigning a word to it. No amount of alphabetic sawdust could contain the breadth and depth of this culmination of every decision he had ever made in life. This was himself as a link in an unfathomable chain reaction, and he never wanted it to end.

John took a few trembling thrusts into him, gasping for the breath that refused to stay in his lungs. Sherlock clawed at him weakly before wrapping his boneless limbs around him and opening himself entirely to the savage ecstasy that was being enacted upon him. He felt every thrust as a biological drive, as necessary to him as breathing. He wondered how he'd ever survived without John inside him. He needed this. He needed this pounding heart and this electric tingle running down his spine and this pleasure, burning hot, deep inside of him.

It was like looking up at a wall of blue sky and thinking that was as far as space went only to have night fall, the sky turn transparent and the entire galaxy unfurl itself before him in endless stretches of ink and diamond.

His voice joined John's as they moaned together harmoniously. Their skin was slicked with sweat and made them slippery as they moved, their hips rolling in an effortless rhythm and their hands mapping the flesh that dared to contain them. Sherlock felt a coil tightening deep in his stomach and knew he wasn't long for this world. John's thrusts were growing frantic and frenetic, and the ragged quality to his moans denoted his distress at the raw sensation coursing through his veins. It was so good it burned and raked at his insides, rendering them into ribbons of feeling.

Half a dozen cosmos-shattering thrusts later, they were both screaming and unravelling. Sherlock felt himself implode, condense and then burst into flames. He twisted beneath the force of an orgasm so powerful it flirted with the line between ecstasy and agony. It was the combination of all five of his senses at once, and they were each competing for dominance. He could do nothing to contain himself as he wordlessly howled the profoundness of the contractions wracking his body and leaving pulp in their wake.

When his mind awoke and his body regained its sentience, he was panting beneath a limp, sweaty John, and both of them were gasping for breath that simply refused to come.

The doctor shakily removed himself from the detective's body, and Sherlock felt the loss like a blow to his consciousness. John rolled onto his side and drew up to him, wrapping his limbs around him and then deflating with a ragged breath that signified both exhaustion and saturation.

Words hung in the air between their bodies but never solidified enough to be spoken.

Sherlock took long draughts of breath, feeling the expansion and compression of his chest in a whole new way. John's eyes were half-lidded and glazed next to him, too close to be in focus, yet the hint of delirium in them was obvious.

In the last moments before he knew John would slip into deep sleep, Sherlock murmured words he'd never once before spoken aloud.

"I love you."

John half-started before settling back into his easy, wrapped-around-Sherlock posture.

"I love you more than words can say."

They both fell into the soundest sleep human beings are capable of having.

…

…

John clutched at his temples and struggled to rein in his temper.

"Sherlock, you can't spill hydrochloric acid on the kitchen counter and then just throw a towel over it."

"Why not? It's not as if the wood is going to regenerate itself. We should simply avoid the spot from now on."

John counted to ten and then took a deep breath. For being so brilliant, Sherlock lived up to the phrase John had assigned to him within days of their first meeting: spectacularly ignorant.

"You could at least warn me that it's there."

"I assumed you would notice when you saw the towel smoldering."

John bit his lip and sucked in a breath. He couldn't help but feel that he'd saddled himself with a very large child for the rest of his life.

At the same time, sunlight was streaming through the kitchen window and catching Sherlock's cheekbones at just the right angle to make him look like sculpted marble. The detective either didn't know how flawlessly beautiful he was or didn't care enough to comment on it. Either way, he needed to learn to stop being so dazzling, or else John was never going to be able to focus again.

The doctor felt his anger melting away as he looked upon a face that, for all its beauty, could not begin to capture what lay beneath it.

"You're an absolute dick, but I suppose I love you anyway."

Sherlock smiled—really smiled—and place a pale hand on his cheek.

"I can't thank you enough for that."

…

…

They were getting older.

Sherlock, for all of his deductions and infinite understanding, knew it but could do nothing to stop it.

It manifested in the new lines crinkling around his eyes and the gray hairs that sprinkled John's temple. They were still racing across London, hot on the heels of this criminal or the other, but Sherlock could feel in his bones the first whispered hint that it could not last forever. One day, they would be too slow, too fragile, to leap across rooftops with their coats flying around them like dark wings.

Sherlock was astounded by how pleased the idea made him.

He had spent years dreading the inevitable corrosion of his mental and physical faculties. The work had been his entire life for decades, and the idea of losing the only thing that mattered to him was abhorrent. Things had changed, however, as he spent more years in the company of Dr John Watson. He still aided the police when they were out of their depth, as was always the case, but it was no longer the sun at the centre of his galaxy.

He had a new purpose now, a new goal for the remainder of his life, that didn't involve solving murders or toppling crime rings or proving to the world that he was clever.

His greatest aspiration in life was to love the man who stood unfailing by his side and to keep earning his love in return.

He would never tire of hearing John tell him he was brilliant when he pointed out what was obvious to only him. He would never tire of returning to 221B Baker Street at the end of a long day and seeing John sat in his chair with the newspaper as always. He would never tire of falling asleep at night wrapped in the arms of the only person who was never tedious or dull.

His life had rocketed off onto a completely unforeseen trajectory—a glitch in the laws of physics that he'd discovered by accident—and he was thankful every day that it had.

…

…

In an astounding moment of humanity, John realised that he was going to die.

He'd known it since he was a child, of course, but knowing and understanding— _really_  grasping the notion—are entirely separate entities.

One day, his heart would stop beating. He would feel it stutter in his chest, would panic as he waited for it to beat again, and then he would know, as the breath seeped out of his lungs, that it would never pulse again.

It would be the most intimate moment of his life, something that only he could experience in his own private, quiet way, and there would be no one but himself to help him through it.

It was more frightening than any other realisation he'd ever had, yet he understood the futility of fretting about it. It was irrefutable fact. There was no sense in being afraid of it.

But he was.

He was terrified.

The depth and breadth of the unknown were waiting for him to leap into them, and there was no telling how far into the abyss he might fall.

His real terror, however, stemmed from the knowledge of what he had to lose.

He'd met the proverbial love of his life, the most incredible, incomprehensible human being that had ever existed, and he'd been fortunate enough to win his love in return.

One day, he would leave Sherlock. Or Sherlock would leave him. Even though they'd shared everything they had with each other, they could not share this.

One of them would have to continue existing without the other, continue living on an Earth that no longer contained oxygen or sunlight or gravity.

It was the most bone-chillingly terrifying thought he'd ever had, but it birthed sympathy in its wake.

There were people who'd never had this feeling. There were people who'd never found someone they loved so much it frightened them. There were people who'd had the chance to feel this but were too insecure or too afraid of their own vulnerability to accept it, and so they chased it away. There were people that wouldn't comprehend these fears if he tried to explain them.

He had almost been that person.

He'd been so alone, so plagued by the war and the unspeakable things that he'd done, that he'd almost let himself be swept away in the suffocating tide of it.

He understood it now. He understood the jealous lovers that murdered the mistress and the people who gave up incredible jobs so they wouldn't have to move away from their families and the old men and women who seemed to wither away and rot when their spouse died before they did. It was a symbiotic relationship that bordered on parasitic. Love was the disease and the cure that never stopped feeding on itself and never ceased to be indescribably beautiful.

With the shift of a few grains of sand—so small and insignificant that John had hardly noticed their passing—his life had become something entirely different. Then the whole hourglass had tipped itself over, and now Sherlock and he were eons away from what might have been.

All lives end. All hearts are broken.

The best-case scenario is finding someone more precious than you could ever be, loving them for a lifetime, and then either losing them or leaving them to try to piece themselves together after you're gone. That is the dream that most people seek without ever understanding the ache and undoing they're about to bring upon themselves.

John loved Sherlock with every atom of every sinew in his weak, fleshy body, and he couldn't help but think that even after he died, all of that feeling had to go somewhere. Maybe it would rush out of him in a cloud of sparks and lightning, or maybe it would shoot down into the ground until it reached the Earth's core, or maybe it would burst up into the Earth's atmosphere, pass through it and join the scintillating stars.

Maybe it would do nothing and mean nothing in the end of it all.

But it was there. Living inside of him right now.

So long as his heart was beating in his chest, it was alive, and so was he.

And then Sherlock was by his side, grabbing his hand and dragging him off towards some new adventure.

John gripped onto him so tightly that the other man began to complain. But he didn't let go.

He never stopped holding onto him. He couldn't if he tried.

…

…

Sherlock was beginning to understand why so many people believed in God.

Of all the life paths he could have chosen, the glaring majority of them had led to him solving crimes, living alone and being an "annoying dick", as John had once so eloquently phrased it.

He hadn't ended up with the life he'd thought he'd have. He'd offered himself to another person, and that person had whole-heartedly accepted him, despite a plethora of logical reasons that should have chased him away. People could cheat or get divorced or decide their differences were irreconcilable, but that was not one of the paths available to him. Sherlock was going to spend his life with one idiotic, adorable, daft, and utterly flawless man, and nothing could ever change that. They were each other's final problem and final solution. The end and beginning of all there was had started with a single day in St Bartholomew's laboratory, a microscope, a mobile phone, and not the slightest inkling that an undiscovered force of nature had just been set into motion.

But it would end some day, as all great things inevitably did.

It made perfect sense, in Sherlock's mind, for John and him to continue to be with each other forever. Perishable human bodies, however, dictated to the contrary.

He'd never been a man of God. God didn't matter. He didn't make the world turn the other way round or stop killers from pulling the trigger, and so He did not matter.

In a sense, however, Sherlock had begun to understand His draw.

When his body finally gave way and when John's did the same - in whatever order they chose to do so - life would cease to be logical. No matter how many years they had initially spent apart, their final joining had been the perfect answer to the most unthinkable problem. They were meant to be one. They were a scale that was so perfectly balanced, the weight of the world could not undo it.

Sherlock, despite every urging of logic and rationale, couldn't help but hope, deep in his heart, that they would always exist, that there would never be an end to it. They would come together again, and even though it defied the scientific world he loved—the world he could touch and quantify and verify with his own two eyes—he hoped, deeply and thoroughly, that there was an eternity of John somewhere out there for him to delight in.

He hoped—no, he prayed—for the first time in his life, that he was wrong. He prayed there was more than what his brain, for all the things it saw that others missed, could understand.

He prayed that not even death could separate a pair as perfect as Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.

…

…

The End.

…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I usually hate to put closing notes on things because I feel it kills the mood, but fuck it. I'm more proud of this than I've ever been of anything I've written in the past. I love Sherlock and John so much that they compel me to put words on paper that hurt me but make me so happy.  
> I'd like to give one final shout-out to Devin and Alex of fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic . tumblr for recommending this story so much and generally being loves. I am again so honoured for the recognition, since I know you read massive piles of wonderful fan fics. You ladies are truly a blessing on this fandom. If anyone out there is not following their blog, you're missing out.  
> I loved this. I loved doing this. I loved getting into Moriarty's head and swimming around in there. I loved writing about a silly scheme that turned into real feelings and then turned into this final chapter. I loved hearing from all of you.  
> I hope you guys enjoyed this even a fraction of how much I did. If you did at all, please please please send me your thoughts. I need to talk to someone about this thing that I did.  
> I will be back. Look for me.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is curious, Benedict Cumberbatch (Sherlock) legitimately has a spot at the top of his right pupil. I found a picture where you can see it decently well:
> 
> http : / / 27 . media . tumblr . com/ tumblr_lhjo2f2vWG1qcp9w5o1_500 . jpg
> 
> and here's a screen cap I took of the last episode of season 1. I added an arrow to point it out:
> 
> http : / / i .imgur . com/tilJU. png
> 
> Remove the spaces from the links, and you're good to go. I noticed it while watching the series. Does that make me a bit obsessive, or did everyone notice that as well? Please spread the word! I want this to become… in the spotlight. ;)
> 
> Oh God, that was atrocious. Please forgive me.
> 
> If you'd like to know more about the psychology behind this fic, google "excitation transfer theory". The swinging bridge phenomenon pops right up. It's a real thing that actually happens to people. Who says fan fiction is unrealistic?
> 
> I hope to see you again next time! You can expect an update every Sunday.


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